Murder Most Austen (12 page)

“Where did you see him go?” Byron said to me.

I again pointed to the doors. “Over there. He left with someone.”

Byron glanced at Alex before mouthing to me, “Lindsay?”

I shook my head.

“Come on, Alex. Let’s go see where he is,” Byron said. Alex nodded weakly.

“Here, I’ll show you where he went,” I offered and moved in the direction of the doors. Aunt Winnie followed behind me.

I’ll admit that when I reached the doors, I had a brief premonition of something ugly lurking behind them. Unfortunately, my thoughts veered toward interrupting a lovers’ embrace or a lovers’ spat.

Of course, it was neither.

No, it was far worse than that.

We pushed open the heavy doors, entered a narrow service hallway, and stared at the grim scene before us. There, among extra table linens and serving carts, lay a body. And not just any body, but a Mr. Darcy body. For a dedicated Janeite such as myself, it was bad enough to see Mr. Darcy sprawled on the floor; it was even worse when you saw the dark crimson stain that spread across his chest.

CHAPTER 11

Where there is a disposition to dislike, a motive will never be wanting.

—LADY SUSAN

A
LTHOUGH THE MASK
was still in place, it wasn’t hard to guess who lay behind it; not many Darcys sported a diamond pinkie ring.

Alex let out a piercing scream when she saw the body. “Is that? Is that…?” she gasped, breaking away from Byron and running to the unmoving figure on the ground. Crumpling into a heap beside it, she gently pulled back the mask. Richard Baines returned our horrified stares with his own vacant one. “Oh, my God!” sobbed Alex. “No!
No!
This can’t be happening!” Grabbing his hand, she cried, “Richard? Can you hear me? Richard, answer me!” She then cradled his face in her hands as she continued to call out his name.

Byron broke out of the stunned daze that still held Aunt Winnie and me immobile. Moving quickly to Richard’s side, he felt for a pulse. Finding none, he turned frightened eyes first to Alex, then to me. “Call the police,” he said.

“Police?” cried Alex, looking at him aghast. “No! Call a doctor! We have to help him!” Turning her tear-stained face up to me, she said, “Please, we have to help him. Somebody get a doctor. Now!”

Byron reached out and gently took her hands away from Richard’s face. “Alex?” he said, his voice low, “he’s gone. We need to call the police.”

Alex stared back at Byron, but her eyes didn’t register his words. “Richard,” she repeated.

Aunt Winnie went to Alex. Taking her hand, she said, “Come here, dear. You shouldn’t look anymore. Let’s get you away from this.”

Alex stubbornly shook her head. “No. I’m not going to leave him. He’s not … he’s going to be fine. I’m not leaving him.”

Aunt Winnie patted Alex’s shoulders sympathetically while she firmly eased her away from the body. “Call the police, Elizabeth,” she said as she helped Alex to her feet.

Finally, the spell of finding Richard’s body lifted. I turned and ran back into the ballroom, shouting for someone to call the police.

*   *   *

TWENTY MINUTES LATER,
the police arrived. Various men and women of the force moved about with brisk authority, dusting for fingerprints, taping off areas, snapping pictures, and taking names of those present. Although someone had placed a white tablecloth over Richard’s body, it didn’t hide the fact that there was a dead body not twenty feet from where we stood. The situation was made all the more surreal by the almost comical contrast between our Regency garb and the police’s modern-day uniforms. It was a little like that scene in
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
when the police descend on King Arthur and his men and haul them off to jail.

Now, I have always been very up front about my Anglophile tendencies—despite the rather vocal protests from some of the more conservative members of my Irish Catholic family. It is my dream to live in England, surrounded by tweed, crumpets, and tea. To say that I have idealized life across the pond would be an understatement. A case in point would be my preferred pastime of watching episodes of
Miss Marple
and
Hercule Poirot.
Sure, the characters stumble across dead bodies with an alarming regularity, but they are dead bodies in
England.
It’s somehow more civilized—and less frightening—when tea and cucumber sandwiches are served while the kindly inspector conducts his investigation.

I wonder when I will ever learn that fiction and reality are really two very, very different things.

I had no tea. I had no cucumber sandwich. What I did have was a very grumpy-looking woman by the name of Inspector Middlefield asking me all sorts of questions, with nary a kind word
or
expression. Of course, it probably didn’t help that the poor woman had to lead her inquiry surrounded by a roomful of people dressed like extras from a fluffy BBC period piece.

I guessed her to be about fifty-five. She was tall and reed thin, with long, thick salt-and-pepper hair that was pulled into a tight bun. Her face was all sharp angles, except for her eyes. These were a brilliant cornflower blue, their saucerlike shape made even more so by the prescription glasses that now perched precariously on the tip of her nose.

“I understand that you were one of the people to discover the body,” Inspector Middlefield now said to me, pushing her black-framed glasses back up the bridge of her long nose and regarding me intently.

“Yes. I saw Professor Baines leave through those doors,” I answered, indicating the ones behind me. “A few minutes later, Alex asked me where he was. I showed her.” I glanced over at Alex, who was slumped in a chair, staring blankly at the floor. Byron stood next to her, his hand placed awkwardly on her shoulder in an apparent effort to comfort her. Inspector Middlefield saw my glance and lowered her voice slightly.

“Yes,” she said. “I understand that you stated that Professor Baines exited the ballroom with his wife? And that it appeared that they were in the middle of an argument?”

I nodded—somewhat reluctantly, as Alex was not three feet from me. “I
thought
it was Alex. It certainly looked like her. I mean, whoever it was, was a similar height and build.”

“But it was definitely a woman?” asked Inspector Middlefield.

I nodded. “I think so. I mean, I guess so. I thought it
was
Alex until she came in a few minutes later and asked where Richard was, so maybe I was wrong.”

Alex’s head snapped my way upon hearing that. “You
are
wrong! It wasn’t me! You have to believe that,” she cried, her eyes wide and still wet with tears. “I was in the bathroom getting sick. Richard and I were dancing when my stomach suddenly cramped up. I left to go to the ladies’ room. I ran into Byron on my way, and he saw that I was really sick, and so he waited outside the bathroom for me.”

She tilted her head up at Byron, a beseeching expression on her face. Byron nodded at the inspector. “That’s true. She was pretty sick,” he added with a rueful glance at his right shoe. I followed his glance. There was a beige blob of … something on the toe. Feeling bile rise in my throat, I quickly looked away.

Alex continued. “I got really sick in the bathroom. I can’t remember ever being so sick in my life. When I came out, I asked Byron to help me find Richard. I wanted to go back to the hotel, and I didn’t think I could make it alone.”

Inspector Middlefield turned to me to corroborate that statement.

“That’s what she said when she asked me where Richard was,” I said.

“So why did you think it was Mrs. Baines who was fighting with the deceased?” asked Inspector Middlefield.

“The costume, I guess. The woman was wearing the same Elizabeth Bennet costume and mask as Alex. And she was about the same height as Alex.”

Inspector Middlefield’s eyes strayed to Alex again. They were filled with doubt.

Alex buried her head in her hands. “Oh, this is unbelievable!” she cried in frustration. “I didn’t kill my husband! I loved him. Why would I want to hurt him? I don’t know who took him out those doors, but I swear to you, it wasn’t me!”

Inspector Middlefield took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly through her nose. “You say that you left the ballroom and went directly to the bathroom?” she asked.

Alex nodded fervently. “Yes. That’s when I ran into Byron. He waited for me, and then we both went back inside the ballroom to look for Richard.”

“And what were you doing, Mr.”—Inspector Middlefield glanced down at her notebook and then back at Byron—“Chambers? I understand you left the ball early. Why was that?” Although her voice was bland, it still didn’t hide the fact that Inspector Middlefield viewed Byron as a suspect.

Byron’s face slacked with shock as the same impression seemed to strike him. “Richard asked me to see to a few tasks he wanted completed by tomorrow,” he said, his voice a shade higher than it had been a minute ago. “I was just coming back to ask him a question about one of his notations when I bumped into Alex.”

Inspector Middlefield’s brows knitted together in concentration as she noted this down. “Were you in costume earlier this evening?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Byron. “But I knew that I wouldn’t be able to finish what Richard needed before the end of the ball, so I changed into my street clothes.”

“I see.” Inspector Middlefield said nothing else, letting silence fill the room, as she calmly regarded him. Byron began to fidget under her gaze.

A constable gave a sudden shout of excitement from down the hallway, breaking the tension. “Inspector,” he called, “I think I’ve found something!”

Inspector Middlefield turned in his direction, her expression studiously controlled and calm. This couldn’t be said for the rest of us.

Hurrying over to the inspector, the constable held out a black wig in his gloved hands. I recognized it immediately. I’d seen several identical ones earlier. It was the wig that went with the Elizabeth costume. However, this one had an added feature. Tucked inside was a bloody knife.

CHAPTER 12

We do not look in great cities for our best morality.

—MANSFIELD PARK

A
LEX LET OUT A LITTLE MOAN
and covered her mouth. “Is that … is that what he was stabbed with?” she asked, her eyes wide with horror.

Inspector Middlefield studied the knife with a practiced eye. “It certainly appears to be,” she said slowly. Taking her pen, she poked it at the wig. “I’d say this seems to go with a costume.” Turning to Alex, she said, “You don’t appear to be wearing a wig, Mrs. Baines.”

Alex shook her head. “No. I didn’t need one. I did my own hair.” Inspector Middlefield looked dubiously at the lank strands that fell haphazardly around her face. Sensing her suspicion, Alex said, “It didn’t look like this earlier, obviously. It came undone while I was in the bathroom.”

“That’s true,” I said.

Inspector Middlefield shifted her gaze to me. “Were you in the bathroom as well?” she asked.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I meant it’s true that Alex didn’t wear a wig tonight. There were several women dressed in costumes similar to hers, but they all wore wigs. I remember noticing that she didn’t.”

“So there were several women dressed like Mrs. Baines?” Inspector Middlefield asked.

“Yes. It was a pretty popular costume. A lot of women also wore the mask with it. Now that I think about it, the woman I saw wore a wig.” I paused and then stated the obvious, “I guess I must have seen one of those women approach Richard. He must have had the fight with another guest in an Elizabeth costume.”

“Yes, it would seem so,” Inspector Middlefield said with the mild sarcasm at which the British excel. I felt my face flush. Turning back to Alex, Inspector Middlefield said, “Did your husband have any enemies that you know of?”

Alex shook her head. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. He upset a lot of people with his theories on Jane Austen, but no one ever got really mad. Well, no one other than that woman Cora.”

“I’m sorry. What woman? Who is Cora?” asked Inspector Middlefield.

I snuck a glance at Aunt Winnie. Her face wore the same expression of dread that I suspected mine did.

“Cora Beadle,” replied Alex. “She was very vocal about her disgust at Richard’s theories. She and he have never seen eye to eye, but this year it was worse. My husband was going to deliver a paper that argued that Jane Austen didn’t die of Addison’s disease but rather syphilis, and Cora was livid.”

Inspector Middlefield made a noise not dissimilar to a strangled cough. Behind her glasses, her blue eyes were shuttered with professional detachment, but I thought I still detected a faint look of amusement in their depths. “I see. Well, that is quite a discovery. What did Cora say about that?” she asked.

“She yelled a lot and said she was going to try and stop him from giving the paper…,” Alex began and then broke off as the implication of her words sank in. “Oh, dear God! Could
she
have done this?” She turned to Byron, her eyes wide. “I mean, I knew she was angry, but do you think she could have killed him?”

Byron shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I really don’t know.”

Inspector Middlefield tapped her notebook with her pen. “Where is this woman now?”

“I don’t know,” replied Alex. “I haven’t seen her since she yelled at Richard during the ball. She seemed a little drunk, to be honest. She bumped into me and spilled my wine. She then insisted I take her glass. After that she lit into Richard.”

“Do you remember what she said?”

Alex gave an apologetic shrug. “Not really. Cora yelled at my husband a lot. After a while, I just tuned it out. So did he, for that matter. As best I can remember, she was angry about the effect his paper would have on Austen’s reputation. She was also going on about some group back home and what they would do.”

“And what was your husband’s reaction?” asked Inspector Middlefield.

“He just laughed at her. I tried to calm her down, but she was furious. She called him a bastard and then left.”