"I don't think Tom is available to see you right now."
The woman standing at the open door to the Tartan Suite was by far the dreariest thing in the hectic room. Her hair was of an indeterminate color that could best be described as taupe, and she had pale eyes to match. St. Just was strongly reminded of a Weimaraner. Her lumpy skirt and twinset might have been woven from pottery shards and twine. St. Just had once owned a rucksack that looked like Edith Brackett.
The thought triggered a niggling memory-something he'd seen in recent days, surely-or was it? The memory eluding him, he reluctantly let it float free. Maybe if he didn't worry at it…
It was a shame, really, he thought now. The woman had classic, even features and, from what he could tell, a neat, trim figure. But she looked the type of woman who was allergic to everything and existed mainly on tofu. With a little embellishment and the application of some of Kimberlee's powders and potions, he thought she could approach eye-catching.
"Mrs. Brackett," he said. "This is a police investigation." (Was he condemned to spend his life reminding people of that fact? He imagined he was.) "Your husband, ready or not, will have to see me. Would you go and fetch him here, please?"
She indicated the closed door to her left. "He's asleep. I think."
Oh, well. There's an end on it-poor bloke's asleep. I'll just take my tiresome little investigation and go away.
Feeling the lack of sleep himself, St. Just repeated, smiling, but with a hint of sternness in the smile: "Fetch him now, please."
A look of something like fear darted across her features-a mad thing that appeared and vanished so quickly St. Just wasn't sure he'd seen it. Was the woman afraid of disturbing her husband?
"I'll awaken him, if you prefer," he said.
A kaleidoscope of emotion at that: relief, gratitude, embarrassment.
"If you wish," she said, an attempt at indifference that didn't play well. She was afraid.
St. Just made a mental note to get her alone and suss out what that was all about. Even better, perhaps Moor had a WPC who could be co-opted for the job. For now, he rapped sharply on the door between the suite's sitting area and bedroom-more sharply than he'd intended. He had a particular and unapologetic hatred for bullies.
A huge bellow leaked like smoke from around the sides of the closed door.
"Goddammit, Edith. I told you-"
The door was flung open. Tom Brackett stood wrapped in one of the hotel's voluminous white terrycloth robes. A rotund Banquo's ghost, thought St. Just, but with a face brick-red with anger. St. Just felt he had seen worse sights than Tom Brackett's hairy legs emerging from the robe, but thankfully, not often.
"Terribly sorry to disturb you, Sir. I just need to ask you and your wife a few questions."
Brackett jutted his chin aggressively in Edith's direction.
"You really never learn, do you-"
"Actually, Mrs. Brackett tried to stop me, Sir. I insisted that you wouldn't both want to be charged with obstructing a police inquiry. Now, would you like to get dressed before we continue? If you'd prefer, we can have our chat at the police station."
Brackett glared. He had tried to tame his thick eyebrows with clipping and gel, a toilette that somehow irresistibly recalled Joan Crawford, but he otherwise resembled a bad-tempered sea lion with a day-old growth of dark hair surrounding his Van Dyke beard.
"Continue what? That little tart's getting herself knocked off is nothing to do with me. And if you think she-" here a jerk of the head in Edith's direction- "had anything to do with it, you've only to take a look at her. She wouldn't have the guts to say boo to a ghost."
St. Just, realizing the man was perfectly capable of carrying on an hours-long conversation while treating his wife as if she weren't even in the room, deliberately turned to Edith.
"I've been wondering, Mrs. Brackett, at your middle name-your maiden name, I assume? Edith Bean Brackett. It sounds awfully familiar to me and I can't think why."
"Tilly Toggle," she said shyly. Her cheeks flushed a bright pink and her eyes suddenly shone. He had confirmation that Edith, in the right circumstances-mainly, out from under her husband's thumb-was beautiful.
Tilly. He barely managed to avoid saying, "Huh?" when the penny dropped. He'd bought those books, a boxed set of five of them, as he recalled, for his sergeant's daughter Emma. Emma wasn't reading yet but, as she could practically program a computer, St. Just had opted to anticipate the day.
"Of course," he said. "I should have realized. Edith Bean. Author of the Tilly books. You must be proud-I see those books everywhere I-"
"Are you here to discuss murder or are you here to discuss books a twelve-year-old could write?" demanded Tom Brackett. "Attack" seemed to be the man's default mode. He sat down heavily in one of the room's two upholstered armchairs, unlovely knees apart, dark brows clouding beneath the sky of his bald pink head. The mustache above his goatee quivered with annoyance.
This was not, thought St. Just, a man who could stand to have the attention removed from himself for one second.
And: He's jealous as hell of his wife's success. Good. Good.
St. Just, motioning Edith to the other armchair, remained standing. He toyed with the idea of interviewing them separately, which would have been truer to established procedure in any case, but he thought more might be learned from the apparently complicated relationship between this pair by keeping them together.
"I gather," said St. Just, "that, on the night of the murder, several of you separated from the main group. I would appreciate it if you would tell me who was with you and what you talked about."
"We've already told-" began Tom.
"I was actually speaking to your wife. Sir."
"That's right," said Edith, earning herself a Why don't you shut up for once? glower from her husband. "We started to watch a television show in the sitting room. Winston Chatley and B. A. King joined us. That reporter Quentin was there some of the time."
"What show was that?" asked St. Just.
"One of the Midsomer Murders," answered Tom. His fingers drummed against the arms of his chair. "Not my onion, of course, but Edith and the others liked it."
St. Just was left to wonder since when Tom cared what others liked. He had recently emerged from an investigation into the death of a mystery writer of supreme awfulness-the writer's persona being awful, not his books-and had imagined he'd never come across his like again. After a few minutes in the company of Tom Brackett, St. Just was drastically revising his opinion.
"After the show, we watched news on the telly," Tom volunteered. "There was some story about one of the lesser royals found in a gutter in Majorca, clutching a bottle of rum. The pundits weighed in with a debate over whether Great Britain really needs a monarchy in the twenty-first century, the commentary voiced over the usual film of Prince Charles talking to his organic peas. You know the kind of thing."
The police could of course check his statement against the broadcaster's tapes. But then, was it really recall, or had he teamed up with his wife to compare notes for the times he was actually not in the room? Could Edith be the apparatchik chosen to provide Tom an alibi?
"What did you talk about?" Again, St. Just aimed the question at Edith, who was blooming nicely under the attention.
"The men talked about the book business," she said, smiling, eager to help. "Mostly, I listened."
"Everyone remained in the room the whole time, did they?"
"I think I did," said Tom. He seemed to be studying the air behind St. Just, not meeting his eyes.
"No, dear, you went to the men's room, don't you remember?"
Tom's wandering focus honed in on his wife. He shot her an expression of outraged disbelief.
That little defection may cost her, thought St. Just.
But Edith went on. "There was only the one bartender on duty so anything we wanted in the sitting room we had to fetch ourselves," she explained. "Winston Chatley went to the gents maybe twice. B. A. King went to his room to get some special Scotch whiskey he wanted the men to try. I think he also went to the gents at some later point. I went for drinks once or twice. Twice, that's right."
"How long was everyone gone on these various errands?"
She looked to her husband.
"I really don't recall. Do you, Tom?"
"It's not as if we knew someone was going to get bumped off, is it?" said Tom with his usual delicacy. "If we'd known we might all have paid more attention. Everyone went for a reload, is all I recall."
"Let me ask this way," said St. Just. "Who was gone from the room the longest?"
"Winston, I think," said Edith.
"B. A. King, I think," said Tom simultaneously.
"What, by the way, does B. A. stand for?" asked Edith of St. Just.
"We really don't know yet."
"Depends who you ask," said Tom. "Bullshit Artist is the hands-down favorite, followed by Benedict Arnold."
"What did you do while waiting for his return?"
"We talked about the conference, the people there," said Edith.
"And B. A. was gone how long? Ten minutes? Fifteen minutes?"
"No, longer," said Tom. "But then, time became rather elastic. We'd all been drinking, talking, watching people on Midsomer be impaled on pitchforks and run over by threshing machines and whatnot. It's impossible to say for certain."
"Except me," said Edith. "I don't drink. I don't think he was gone more than fifteen minutes, Tom."
Which sobriety probably made her the more reliable witness of the pair, thought St. Just. Her words earned her another glare from Tom. I'll have to offer her police protection if she keeps contradicting her oaf of a husband.
Which of them was telling the truth? St. Just would put his money on Edith. Tom's focus seemed to be on getting everyone but himself in trouble.
"Mrs. Brackett, how often did you say you went to get drinks from the bar?
"Twice."
"How long did it take each time?"
"Maybe ten minutes-it took longer the second trip because the bartender was busier then. The people in the library were all pretty much, how do you say?-three sheets to the wind? Also, I stopped to talk with Annabelle Pace-just mentioning the storm in passing, you know. It was starting to gale by then. It added to the… disorientation I think we all felt. Everything, time, seemed "out of joint"-you know the feeling?"
"So you don't remember with any certainty when you left and came back?"
"She's already answered that," snarled Tom.
Still Edith soldiered bravely on. She seemed to be one of those witnesses who love helping the police-not always the most helpful type, in St. Just's experience. Some tended to embroider or invent where they couldn't remember.
"Not really," she said. "I went for the first round shortly after we'd collected in the sitting room. That was soon after dinner, of course. The second time was maybe forty-five minutes later." As often before, her voice rose at the end of the sentence, forming a question. "It was just before the television show started, I do recall that."
St. Just made a mental note to check the telly schedule for that night.
"We were watching the news when we lost the power," said Edith. "You have to remember all these times are rough guesses at best."
"And what did you do then?"
"We went to bed," they answered together.
Tom added, "We sat around a bit to see if it was a temporary situation. When it became evident it was not, we went to bed."
"Had either of you met Kimberlee before?" asked St. Just.
They both shook their heads.
"How about the others? Had you met your fellow Americans, for example?"
"We might have run across some of them at the occasional New York conference. I really don't recall," said Tom. His voice was harsh and phlegmy, like a clarinet played under water. Again, he spoke over Edith, drowning out her soft voice.
"Tell me how you came to be here." St. Just, leaning against a low cabinet, directed the question to Tom this time. Not that it mattered whom he addressed. The man would prevent his wife speaking wherever he could, probably just from force of habit.
"We'd had a good year, financially speaking. Easterbrook invited us and there seemed no reason to decline. Right about then I saw an ad for airfare to Scotland that was too good to pass up, even allowing for the absolute drubbing the U.S. dollar has been taking lately."
"This is unusual-Easterbrook picking up the hotel tab?"
"I should say it is. Usually, only agents and editors get compensated at these conference affairs. Then they spend all their time actively avoiding anyone who looks like he might be harboring a manuscript about his or her person. The attendees believe the agents and editors are here as talent scouts-can you believe it? Quite the opposite, of course. They're here to see, in this case, Edinburgh, and to stay in a castle or hotel with room service. Full stop."
"A boondoggle, then?"
"Quite. One of the perks of the job, you see."
"A bit misleading to the attendees, perhaps? The aspiring authors?"
Brackett shrugged. "That's their lookout."
St. Just wondered how much of Tom's good year had to do with Edith's book sales rather than his own. St. Just struggled to keep his usual easygoing expression pasted on his face: The man seemed to roil with an undercurrent of rage and contempt for the world at large. If that rage found a target in anyone who thwarted him, how dangerous could Tom Brackett be?
"Inspector," said Edith. He turned to her. "If you have no further questions of me I would like to lie down. It has been a trying day."
The request surprised him but he could see no reason to detain her. Later, he would see her downstairs-not resting, but sketching in a notebook. There was apparently another door into the hallway from their bedroom. He wondered then if her withdrawal was diplomatic-if she suspected he might get further with Tom without her there.
When the door closed behind her, St. Just turned to the man and said, "Let's go through this one more time."
"Why?"
"Because Edith is too close to you"- too afraid of you – "for me to bank on her neutrality as a witness. Besides, you were there most of the time. It's the others who need you to vouch for them."
To this there was no reply. Brackett looked away, but his cross expression plainly said keeping the others out of trouble was a very low priority with him.
"Can you verify what Edith said about her own movements?"
Tom lit a cigarette in the nonsmoking room, taking his time about it, the rasp of the strike wheel of his disposable lighter puncturing the quiet. Finally, he said, "Edith fetched drinks, maybe twice, maybe three times."
"Three? That's not what was said earlier."
A shrug. "I don't remember, I told you. I'd had a few drinks. I wasn't watching the clock."
"And the men?"
"Winston went to the john a couple times. Or at least he said that's where he was going. That King jackass went to his room and to the john. I'm not sure about Quentin."
"When did you first meet Kimberlee?"
"We've been over this. I didn't know the woman."
"You lived in London at one point in your life, did you not?"
Finally. Brackett's consternation at St. Just's easy knowledge of his past had at last wiped the irritable expression from his face, replacing it with a look of wariness. What else might the police know?
"When was this?" St. Just pressed home the advantage.
"You tell me," said Brackett. "You know everything."
St. Just lost his temper, a luxury he rarely allowed himself with a suspect. He moved a menacing step closer to Brackett's chair. As usual with bullies, Tom, surprised, simmered down immediately.
"This is how it works. I ask the questions. You answer them. When did you live in London?"
"In the late eighties."
"Why?"
"I worked for the CIA in those days. And our pals at MI6."
"Where did you live?"
"I had a flat just off Sloane Square."
"Nice. I didn't know government work paid that well."
"I was high up the ladder." Another shrug, elaborately casual this time. His eyes held a glint of triumph, and of warning, as if to imply there were still strings he might pull from those days, if he chose. "Also, I had started writing by then. The job bored me. For something to do I began writing. The advance on my first novel helped pay the rent."
"Were you published by Deadly Dagger Press then?"
"No. Dagger acquired my house in a merger. They kept me on, naturally."
"You always wrote thrillers?"
"Yes. 'Write what you know' is the accepted wisdom. What I knew about was spies. So I did-write about them."
"What did you do before and after you lived in London?"
"A lot of that is classified, but it's nothing to do with this situation, anyway."
St. Just's fists came crashing down on both arms of Tom's chair, effectively pinning him in. He bent down until his face was just inches away. "Quit screwing with me. I'll find out eventually but it would be better to hear it from you."
Tom turned his head, sparing St. Just the strong smell of cigarette fumes. An exaggerated sigh, now-the sigh of an adult indulging a particularly fractious child.
"From London I went to Russia," Tom muttered. "From Russia I went to the U.S. I met Edith. I worked. I retired."
St. Just stepped back, releasing him.
"That's much more the kind of cooperative spirit I was hoping for," he said. "Now, do you have much contact with other writers?"
"Not if I can help it. The usual tours and signings. I go out to meet my fans, not other authors. What would the point be of that?"
"So you don't normally come to conferences. Why come to this one?"
Brackett seemed to realize the contradiction. He paused to blow a smoke ring, looking like a man trying to remember where he'd mislaid his keys.
"It's lonely work, writing. Besides, I told you, Easterbrook was paying."
"How often did you speak with Kimberlee here at the castle?"
Another pull on the cigarette.
"That first night at dinner. Maybe I congratulated her on her upcoming award."
St. Just talked with the man a further twenty minutes, and managed to wrench no more from him than a reiteration of how the murder had nothing to do with him. St. Just, fuming, went downstairs, which was where he found Edith busy with her sketching. She seemed to be an exceptional artist in addition to her other gifts; he hadn't realized that she probably illustrated her own books. He watched as a gentle, comic illustration of field mice emerged from her pencil, and felt a small twinge of envy. He had enough experience of the difficulty of drawing well to know talent when he saw it. He told her this, and once again watched the flush of pleasure beautify her transparent skin like a sunrise.
"It's safe to go back up," he told her. "I think. Mrs. Brackett-Edith-if there is anything you feel you need to tell me, or if the police can help you in any way-"
But she cut him off. "He'll be needing me. I have to get back to him," she said, quickly gathering her things. Worried, he followed her back up slowly, heading for the incident room. He passed the Brackett's door again on the way.
"And just what the fuck did you think you were doing?" he heard Tom say, before she could safely shut the door.
Now there, thought St. Just, was a man who lived in a world of paranoia and distrust. Did belonging to the CIA do that to one, St. Just wondered? Or were you paranoid to start with, to want to join?
He sat in the currently empty incident room, rifled through some of the new reports that had come in, and fought down his frustration. He was operating at a disadvantage. These people were separated from their homes and daily lives, thrust against the foreign, outlandish backdrop of a Scottish castle. Thrust into a murder investigation in a Scottish castle.
The clothes on their backs and in their suitcases, and the few personal items they had brought with them, were all he had to go on for clues to their personalities. That, and the potted biographies on their book jackets.
How much truth, and how much advertising, might have gone into those? They might be the fabricated product of some fevered brain in the publisher's marketing department, for all he knew.
And he was working at another disadvantage: His instinctive avoidance of Kimberlee Kalder meant he had to rely largely on second-hand accounts of her from people he barely knew.
He reached across the desk for a phone. His first call was to Sergeant Fear, his usual aide de camp in Cambridge. Fear had embarked on a three-day course of thatching in Shropshire, of all things, bringing his small family in tow. St. Just gathered that Fear regarded a part-time job as a thatcher as a hedge against future inflation. St. Just managed to reach him on a mobile with an appalling connection.
"How are you, Sergeant?"
"Nothing a bit of sleep wouldn't cure, Sir."
"Devin? How old is he now? Nine weeks?"
"Nearly ten, Sir."
"He won't sleep?"
"No, Sir."
"Have you tried-?"
"Yes," said Fear, a bit more curtly than his usual respect for his superior would dictate. After a pause: "Yes, Sir. We have tried feeding him before bed, not feeding him before bed, giving him warm baths, massages, driving him around in the car-my God, I've seen more of the back roads of England in the last few weeks than ever before in my life. Do you know when the bakeries deliver to the restaurants? I do. They-"
"Have you tried placing him on top of the drier?"
"The what?"
"The clothes drier. They like the permanent press cycle best, not too warm. Now, why I was calling…"
He rang off after a few minutes, leaving Fear still wondering how St. Just had become an expert on every subject, however obscure.
Next, St. Just put in a call to a friend of his at Scotland Yard. It was time to sketch in a little more background on the American contingent.