Shadow of Reality (12 page)

“You mean…but we saw him late Monday night…that means he must have died shortly after he left your room.” Gavin looked stricken. “What a ghastly thought—I sent the poor blighter out with a flea in his ear to meet his death. I may have been the last person to see him alive—” He swallowed deeply. “I say, that takes some getting used to.”

Elizabeth put her hand on his arm. “Don’t torture yourself; you couldn’t have known. But I’m afraid it gets worse. He didn’t die in that bed. Someone put him there.”

Gavin frowned. “How do you know that?”

Elizabeth explained about lividity and Gavin winced at the gruesome details. “I say. That must have been jolly unpleasant.”

“More unpleasant than jolly.” Elizabeth’s brief smile turned serious again. “But you see what it all means, don't you?”

“I’m very much afraid I do. Who have you told?”

“No one yet, unless Richard told Anita. I suppose Mr. Hamlin should know, but I don’t see that much can be done until the police can get here. I suppose they could come up in a helicopter if we could get word to them.”

“I haven’t heard a news report lately, but if the flood conditions have subsided in the valley someone could hike out.” Gavin frowned thoughtfully.

Elizabeth was glad he didn’t ask for any more details about the body—she wanted to enjoy her dinner. And dinner that night was most enjoyable. It featured a dessert buffet in the center of the room, where the salad bar usually stood. Such creations du chef as Vienna nut torte, Black Forest cake, strawberry parfait, blueberry custard, eclairs and Napoleons, and imported cheeses with strawberries, grapes, and pears adorned a three-tiered table. It left all the diners laughing helplessly at their own greediness, even the brother and sister, who could hardly fight with each other while sharing bites of a chocolate whipped cream cherry confection.

Elizabeth pushed her plate away with a groan.

“Is that a signal you’ve finished?” Gavin asked.

“That Port Salut is the best cheese I’ve ever tasted in my life, but when I’m too full even to finish my tea, you know I’m full.”

Fixing his glass in his eye, always a signal he was going into a characterization, Gavin leaned toward her. “In that case, my dear, how about coming up to my room for a spot of rare manuscript viewing?”

Elizabeth held up her hand as a warning. “Not unless the butler is there to supervise.”

“Alas, the inestimable fellow remained in London. Hardhearted of him. I’m desolate without his services.”

“Just as I supposed. Besides, you already confessed that you don’t collect rare books.”

“Careless of me, that. Well, might as well make the best of it then and go to the movie, what?”

Tonight’s film was
The Silent Passenger
, a 1935 period piece with Peter Haddon playing Lord Peter Wimsey. But even the most devoted old movie buff had to admit it was only interesting rather than gripping, and the combination of a comfortable chair, a dark room, a full stomach, and last night’s interrupted sleep made it more than Elizabeth could do to stay awake.

She battled through the first half, then decided she was being ridiculous to attempt the impossible. “I’m sorry, Gavin, but I’m so sleepy I just can’t fight it any longer.”

He glanced quickly at the screen, then back to her. “Of course, I’ll take you to your room.”

“No. You stay here. I know it’s important to you to see Haddon’s interpretation, and there’s no telling when you’ll get to see such an obscure film again.”

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly. I’m quite capable of walking to my room.”

The old hotel was quiet, and the uneven floorboards creaked under her feet as she climbed the stairs, her hand running lightly up the oak banister. On the fourth floor the hall was softly lighted, and the mellow wainscoting was warm and welcoming. Elizabeth’s mind was full of images from the movie and the role-playing of the past days…and suddenly she was walking down the hall in a Yorkshire country house in the thirties.

The sensation lasted only a few seconds before reality intervened and shattered the illusion, but for that moment it had been so absolutely real, so totally authentic, that it left Elizabeth shaken and strangely buoyed. It was as if all the books she had read and the movies she had seen about time travel and visiting other dimensions were possible.

Yet the fact that the moment passed so swiftly left her with a sense of loss and a nostalgic ache for things that could never be recaptured: The fading of a dream, a vision of the night—
like a starving man who dreams and thinks that he is eating, but wakes up to find himself empty, or a thirsty man who dreams and thinks that he is drinking, but wakes up to find himself thirsty and dry
. She frowned slightly, wondering where that had come from. Something she had memorized long ago. What a strange thing memory was. The futility of the unbidden lines seemed to reinforce her feeling of sadness.

She entered her sitting room with a sigh, pulled the turban and brooch from her head, tossed them on the coffee table, and with a drowsy step went into her bedroom. In a few minutes she slipped into bed, chasing away her former melancholia by thinking of Gavin, of the delight of being with him, of the incredible experience of seemingly finding her favorite fictional heroes in real life; and, like Sebastion in
The Tempest
, she murmured, “If it be thus to dream, still let me slumber on.”

Chapter 10

Friday, March 16, 1090/1934

The next morning, Elizabeth wakened to the sound of rain lashing against her window by a driving wind. If this weather didn’t clear up pretty soon she was going to start worrying about getting home. Being cut off from reality and lost in a fantasy for a few days was fine, but if it went on much longer, claustrophobia would set in. Especially since one of those sharing her confinement was…well, never mind…

She washed her face vigorously to avoid following that line of thought, then sat in the cozy, if faded, chintz overstuffed chair in the corner by the window. Still too early for breakfast, although coffee would be available in the lounge for early risers. But Elizabeth wanted to be quiet, to gather her thoughts. The ups and downs of the past days had left her uncentered and emotionally overloaded.  She tried to read a novel she found on the table beside the chair. She usually liked Ngaio Marsh, but this one didn’t hold her interest.  She tossed it aside and instead picked up the Bible that had been under it. She smiled, thinking again of sitting with Nana in that squeaky rocker. Sometimes she would read and sometimes Nana would, but always the rocker moved in rhythm to the words. And for every five verses she memorized she got to walk into town with Nana for an ice cream cone. She closed her eyes, remembering what long legs her tall, thin grandmother had, how she always had to run to keep up with her.

The reminiscing did the trick. A short time later she left her room, feeling refreshed. At the sight of a man in the hall, she opened her mouth to greet Richard, then started when she realized it was someone else. “Oh, Bill. You startled me. What are you doing down that empty hall?” Her eyes flicked to the door of the supposedly empty room just beyond them.

“Just taking a morning constitutional. All this rich food and little chance for exercise—it’s starting to catch up with me. And certainly couldn’t walk outdoors in this.” He tipped his head toward the rain streaking down the window. “Ready for a new day of sleuthing?”

“Er, sure.” She forced a smile as she fell into step beside him down the stairs.
What was he
really
doing outside that room
? she wondered.

But at the dining room she met Richard, and his first question changed her train of thought.

“Did you have a nice evening?” he asked, as Bill moved on to join his family.

“Yes, I did, in spite of getting sleepy in the middle of the movie. Gavin Kendall is really a major league nice person.” She smiled, then added quickly, “And so is Anita.”

“You noticed that, too, did you?”

They were almost to the Blithe Spirit table when Elizabeth remembered she had left her notebook in the parlor adjoining her room. “You go on, Richard, I’ll catch up.”

But the notebook wasn’t on the coffee table in front of the fireplace where she was sure she had left it. She checked the books on the end table, the pile of papers on the desk where Richard had apparently been working at odd moments…even under the chairs and sofa. She checked behind the cushions of the sofa next. But all she found was the peach crepe headband she had tossed there lethargically last night. And only the headband. She stared at the fabric lying limp in her hand. No pearl and diamond brooch.

She began to search frantically, pulling the cushions off the sofa, crawling around the floor on her hands and knees, dumping out the wastebasket, even raking through the ashes in the fireplace. It was gone.

Her first thought was to get Richard. She turned and barely missed banging into the door as it opened toward her, “Oh, Richard, I’m so glad—”

“Sorry to disappoint and all that, but I told Richard I’d pop up and tell you the news.” Gavin put his hands on her shoulders to steady her. “Is something wrong?”

“My brooch, Grandmother’s pearls—it’s gone.”

“So they got to you, too, did they?”

“Too?” She sank into the nearest chair.

“I’m afraid there’s been rather a rash of jewel-thieving.” Elizabeth’s hand went to the slim gold chain at her throat. “Stark announced at breakfast that there were several occurrences last night, which were definitely not part of the scenario. He suggested that everyone turn their valuables in to the hotel to keep them in the safe, and two of the bellboys have been dispatched to hike down the mountain for the police. Although, in this weather…” They both glanced anxiously at the rain-battered window.

“Of course, the good part is that the weather makes it harder for the culprit to get away, too. I think the hotel is quite optimistic about recovering the jewelry.”

“What kind of value system is this? Hamlin knew about the corpse in the empty room, but even when the weather was dry for two days he didn’t send anyone out. Now because some guests have lost some baubles he sends mere boys out in this.” But Elizabeth wasn’t really thinking about the jewelry or even the health of the bellboys. “Then, that must mean that our corpse was involved in a jewel ring, and the others bumped him off.” She began pacing the room, then stopped with her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear, I’m talking like a character in a cheap thriller.”

“I think you’re probably right, though. It does look as though he had a mate. The fellow has probably done us a favor. It’s a dead cert, I’d say, that when they solve the robbery they’ll solve the murder. Of course, the murder's still not generally known yet.”

“And they’re going ahead with the game?”

“Full speed. It’s more important than ever—keep the troops occupied, so to speak. Matter of fact, I’m on the agenda this morning.”

“Oh? I haven’t checked my schedule. What’s happening?”

“Speeches in the main parlor. Stark on detective technique, Matt Cruise—Brian Rielly to you—on spies in fact and fiction, and yours truly on the classic country-house mystery.” He bowed. “But you’re missing breakfast.”

“It seems discovering I’ve been robbed took my appetite away. Maybe I could just grab a piece of toast along the way.”

Gavin was holding the door open for her when she stopped and struck her forehead. “Oh, now I remember—I left my notebook by my bed!” She returned with it in a minute. “At least that’s one mystery solved.”

Weldon Stark’s speech on the scientific aspects of detection, from electronic surveillance to forensic toxicology, was fascinating, but Elizabeth couldn’t keep her mind on the lecture. She found that her thoughts and notes kept drifting to the real mystery of the fourth floor of Eyrie House.

“Because of the perfection of modern methods of detection and estimation of poisons, poisoning, which was the favorite weapon of the criminal of bygone days, has declined considerably…”

If they could just identify that little man, somehow it wouldn’t seem so awful. It’s just the idea of a nameless grave…

“The archetype of mineral poisons is arsenic, which since ancient times, was the poisoners’ favorite…”

He must have been here either as one of the jewel thieves,
Elizabeth thought,
and they killed him over a disagreement. Or maybe he was a policeman, or journalist, or an insurance inspector…something like that, tracking the thieves. Either way, last night’s robbery means that the murderer is among us
—
actively among us…
She shivered and forced her mind back to Weldon Stark.

“Now, that favorite of all spy thrillers, hydrocyanic acid, is a very volatile liquid smelling of bitter almonds, and fifty milligrams of it is sufficient to cause death. Unfortunately, for the addicted readers of international intrigue, metallic cyanide takes an appreciable time to act, and death commonly follows about thirty minutes later…”

Cyanide…almond smell…thirty minutes…
Elizabeth’s pen stilled as her mind wandered off in quite another direction.
Whatever the man’s reason was for being at the Eyrie House, he should have had some luggage. A thief would have tools, surely. And a detective would, too
—
they always do on TV. Whatever he was doing, he would need clothes, a toothbrush, a razor…if we could just find his things…
She had developed almost a possessive feeling about the man—it was her corpse—after all, she’d found it twice.

“…Strychnine is fortunately used less and less as a rat poison, but it used to be popular with would-be prisoners. It is a convulsive poison…”

Gavin was next on the program, and Elizabeth struggled to follow his classification of mystery writing into classic detections, gothic thrillers, spy intrigues, occult horrors, and police procedurals. “Wilkie Collins is considered the father of the classic whodunits; most of you have probably read
The Moonstone
…”

Elizabeth looked at her notes and saw that instead of writing “Collins,” her pen had scribbled “luggage.” At that, she abandoned all pretense of listening to the speakers and began concentrating on the most likely places to look for her corpse’s possessions. Going on the assumption that he did bring some luggage with him, she figured that one of two things had to have happened: Either he put it someplace himself before he met his murderer and it was still there, or the murderer disposed of it later. If the latter had happened, it could be too late to find anything—although the chances seemed good that the luggage might still be somewhere in the hotel, since there had been so little opportunity to get away.