Faked to Death Page 4

  “How unutterably common,” Miss Veryan commented, sotto voce, as she placed her hand lightly upon my arm. “But then, what more can one expect of the daughter of a man who made a fortune manufacturing toilet brushes?”

  I recalled having read somewhere that Miss Veryan’s father had been the younger son of a duke.

  As we descended the stairs, Giles trailing dutifully behind us, I kept Miss Veryan distracted by babbling on and on about one of her most famous novels, A Doubtful Joy, one of my all-time favorite crime novels. By the time we joined the others in the drawing room, Miss Veryan was practically purring, having told me twice how much she appreciated my astute analysis of her work. A little charm works wonders, all the more so when it’s based on sincere feelings.

  Lady Hermione was holding court amidst a small crowd of milling conference-goers. George Austen-Hare had, none too gracefully, wiggled loose from Norah Tattersall’s tight grasp and gone off to accost several young women who had gathered together on one side of the room. Miss Tattersall, thus abandoned, cast about for a moment but quickly latched on to someone she evidently recognized.

  Lady Hermione hailed us from across the room, and her voice, as usual, boomed out over the noise generated by the twenty or so people in the room with her. “Isabella, my dear! I see you’ve met Dr. Kirby-Jones and his assistant.” She motioned with her left hand while her right kept a tight grasp on the arm of her companion, a handsome man in his late twenties. “Do let me introduce you to another guest who’s here for his first visit with us.”

  Our little threesome halted before Lady Hermione and her companion, whose identity I had already guessed. Ashford Dunn, Nina’s newest client, the new blazing star of the legal thriller genre, stood appraising us with a cool gaze. I could see at a glance why Nina had signed him. He had the chiseled good looks of the proverbial matinee idol, and from his stance, he also possessed the cockiness to go with them. He couldn’t write worth a damn, but when had that ever stopped someone from becoming a bestseller? Image these days seemed much more important than content, and Dunn had an image that could sell, and sell big. Nina was no fool.

  Lady Hermione introduced us with the air of a general reviewing her troops, and I gave Dunn’s hand a quick shake. He couldn’t resist trying to turn it into a power contest, the silly man, and I exerted just enough pressure to make him wince. To him I might look a bit on the effete side, but then, he had no idea what I really was. To him I looked human. To me he looked intelligent.

  After a startled, slightly resentful glance at me, he passed on to Giles. As he shook Giles’s hand and acknowledged his rather cool greeting, Dunn let his eyes wander back and forth between Giles and me, and I could see in his eyes that he had decided that we had something more than an employer-employee relationship. His lip curled slightly as he turned away to fawn over Miss Veryan, dismissing Giles and me as of no importance whatsoever.

  “I’ve read all your books several times, Miss Veryan,” Dunn said, his voice silky, the mid-western flat tones very pronounced. “I can say without exaggerating that you’ve been a big influence on my own writing. For example, in my first book, Presumed Guilty, I set my murder during a production of Hamlet, like the brilliant way you did the same thing in The Skull Beneath the Skin. ”

  Giles laughed aloud before he could stop himself, and I almost did the same thing. The look on Miss Veryan’s face would have frozen boiling water, but Dunn nattered on, totally oblivious. He was too caught up in regaling us with the ingenious way he had used the plot of a Shakespearean play in his novel to pay attention to Giles’s open mirth at his expense.

  Miss Veryan, after a few moments of outraged silence, cut in on his smug blather. “If you’re going to try to suck up to someone, young man, you might at least make the effort to do so in an intelligent manner.” With that, she turned and swept off, leaving an open-mouthed Dunn in her wake. Lady Hermione cast a glare at her young guest as she went after Miss Veryan, leaving a bewildered Dunn to my tender mercies.

  “What the hell did I say to make the old biddy so angry?” Dunn asked, his face twisted in a grimace of distaste.

  “Miss Veryan didn’t write The Skull Beneath the Skin,” I informed him, trying not to smirk as his eyes grew wide with horror. “P. D. James did. And wasn’t the play Webster’s The Duchess of Malfi?”

  “Damn!” Dunn said, adding several rather colorful vulgarities under his breath. “I can’t tell those old women apart. All their books are the same. Page after page after page of some detective brooding about life and wondering why the vicar forgot to put the dog out. I could never make it all the way through a single one of those books.”

  “No one to help you with the big words?” Giles said, his tone oozing mock sympathy.

  In a nasty tone, Dunn suggested that Giles do something physically impossible to accomplish—unless one is a freak of nature, that is—then stalked off.

  “How utterly charming,” Giles said, not in the least bothered by Dunn’s behavior.

  “You missed your chance to make a handsome new friend,” I said, smiling. “And here I thought he’d be just your type.”

  He rolled his eyes at me. “You’re not going to foist me off on a prat like that, Simon. Never fear.”

  “One can always hope,” I said. He rewarded me with a raised eyebrow.

  Before the discussion could degenerate any further, Lady Hermione once again hailed me.

  I turned to see her approaching with an attractive young woman in tow. “Let me introduce you,” Lady Hermione boomed, “to the final member of our staff for this week. Dr. Kirby-Jones, this is Dorinda Darlington, the mystery writer. Dorinda, my dear, Simon Kirby-Jones, our historical expert, and his assistant, Giles Blitherington.”

  My senses went on high alert at hearing that name. Here was the impostor, in the too, too-solid flesh. Would she exude any guilt or nervousness at meeting me, whose identity she had appropriated?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cool as a cucumber, this faux Dorinda was. She gave off no feelings of nervousness or trepidation at meeting me. Upon reflection, I realized that she might have no idea who the real “Dorinda” was. My identity had been a closely guarded secret, known heretofore only to my agents and my editors back in the United States and here in England. Unless one of them were complicit in this masquerade, faux Dorinda couldn’t have figured it out. “How do you do, Miss Darlington?” I said, as smoothly as I could manage over the raging irritation I felt at meeting her. “I have enjoyed your books very much. I thought your first novel, Alibi for Murder, was exceptionally polished for a debut novel.”

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “But actually, that was my second book. Crime on Her Mind was my first novel.”

  A point to her for neatly sidestepping that trap— she had at least done her homework. “Ah, yes, I stand corrected, Miss Darlington. Tell me, though, isn’t there a new novel due soon? Your fans, myself included, are impatient for a new one.”

  She smiled again. “I’m delighted to say that my fourth book, An Overture to Murder, will be out in a couple of weeks.”

  “What an intriguing title,” I said. “Tell me, if you will, what the background for this story is. With a title like that, is it something to do with music?”

  “Yes, opera, actually,” she replied. “One of my interests.”

  More points for that one. Of course, such information wouldn’t be that difficult to come by. There had been a glowing review in Publishers Weekly and one or two in the British press already, which gave enough of the plot details. Whatever her game was, she was certainly well prepared.

  I observed her for a few moments while she chatted with Lady Hermione and Giles. If I had had to choose someone to portray “Dorinda” publicly, I would not have picked someone like her. Upon closer inspection, she was not as attractive as I had first thought, though she did have alert, intelligent eyes. Short blond hair framed her head in oddly angled spikes, while an overly generous mouth made her face seem out of propo
rtion. Plain was the most charitable adjective I could use to describe her.

  The faux Dorinda focused intently on what Giles was saying—something about the new book—and her eyes sparkled as she looked at him. For that I couldn’t blame her; he is quite delicious, and when he sets out to charm someone, he usually manages to do so.

  It wouldn’t do to underestimate her as an adversary. What her particular game was, I had no idea, but before this week was over, I would find out.

  “What will you be speaking on this week, Miss Darlington?” I asked during a lull in her conversation with Giles.

  “Call me Dorinda, please,” she said. “Lady Hermione has asked me to talk about contemporary women sleuths, and how to create a strong, intelligent, and multidimensional character.”

  “Based on what I’ve read of your work,” Giles said, “you certainly know whereof you speak. Your heroine is a marvelously realized character.”

  I almost said, “Thank you,” but fortunately, faux Dorinda beat me to it before I could give the game away. As she accepted Giles’s compliment, I surreptitiously squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back to acknowledge it.

  “Is Dorinda Darlington your real name?” I asked. “I was just curious, if you don’t mind my asking. Sometimes writers choose to cloak their identities in pseudonyms, and the biographical information on your book jackets is rather sketchy, after all.”

  She was not in the least disconcerted by my question. “It is a pseudonym,” she replied, because I do like my privacy. I’ve only recently decided to begin making public appearances, and while I’m in the public eye, I prefer to be known as Dorinda. I’m sure you will understand.”

  “But of course,” I said. I’d find out, somehow, what her real name was, and before much longer. She certainly wasn’t going to tell me. “Another thing that occurs to me, now that I’ve met you: isn’t it rather unusual for an English woman to write a series about an American female private eye? How did you come to do that?”

  “I lived in America for several years,” she responded, her tone cool, “and I’ve always been fascinated by American crime fiction.” She preened a bit. “And thus far, no one has been able to detect that I’m not American.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” I said, though something in my tone must have gotten through to her. Her eyes narrowed a moment as she examined my face.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” faux Dorinda said, making a move away from our small group, “I really must go and talk with Dame Isabella Veryan. We have the same agent, and I’ve been dying to meet her.”

  Interesting. She knows about Nina, I thought. I wonder what that could mean...

  Lady Hermione had already wandered off, and Giles and I were left alone together in the midst of the group. “What do you think, Simon? What is she after?” he asked in a low voice.

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll both have to be on the alert this week and try to ferret out anything we can about her. She obviously has done her best to learn as much as she can, especially if she knows that Nina is the agent representing the Dorinda books. I want to know why she’s doing this, and what she expects to gain from it. Then I can decide how I want to handle the situation.”

  Giles began to speak, but I held up a hand to forestall him. Dorinda and Dame Isabella had moved closer to us, and I wanted to hear what they were saying. It took a bit of focusing to filter out the extraneous noise from all the conversations buzzing around us, but I managed to concentrate enough to hear most of what they were saying. Giles waited patiently. He had seen me eavesdropping before.

  “...do wish you would reconsider my request, Dame Isabella,” Dorinda was saying.

  “I have already told you at least twice, young woman,” Miss Veryan said, at her frostiest, “that I will not do such a thing. I’ve also informed Nina that I find your importuning disgraceful. I still can’t believe you had the nerve to show up, uninvited, on my doorstep as you did last week. There’s no use your continuing to badger me in this way. Had I known you were to be here this week, I would have sent my regrets to Hermione.”

  “But you are here,” Dorinda replied smoothly, “and I’m sure that before the week is over, you will see things my way. After all, I’m sure it wouldn’t do to have the reading public to know every little thing about the past of the revered crime novelist Dame Isabella Veryan.”

  The mockery in her tone as she said “every little thing” and “revered” was enough to set my teeth on edge, and I could imagine how it affected Miss Veryan. I had turned my head slightly, and I could see that she had turned white with suppressed fury.

  “You vulgar, self-seeking little bitch,” Miss Veryan said, biting off the words. “How dare you threaten me! Do you think I would fall for such empty threats?”

  Dorinda laughed—not a pleasant sound. “I’m sure you will agree, Dame Isabella, that parish records can be so very, very interesting. Particularly the records I happened to run across in a rather out-of-the-way little church in East Anglia.”

  “Go to hell!” Miss Veryan said.

  “Now, do you really think that’s polite?” Dorinda said, her calm unruffled. “I never knew you had such a temper, dear Dame Isabella. But then, there’s so much about you that many others don't know, isn’t there?”

  By then, however, she was talking to the air, for Miss Veryan had whirled on one heel and stalked away from her. I turned to stare at Dorinda, fascinated. It’s not often that one hears such blatant attempts at blackmail, and in so public a gathering.

  Dorinda must have felt the force of my gaze on her, because she turned and looked me straight in the eyes. She smiled mockingly, then turned away. The gauntlet had been thrown down, so to speak.

  “Simon!” I felt Giles’s hand on my arm. “What was it? What did you hear?” He has noticed, of course, that I have very keen hearing, but he has no idea why.

  I turned back to him and quickly repeated the gist of the conversation. He grimaced when I had finished. “So that’s part of her game, eh? Blackmail! ” He frowned. “Wonder what it is that she wants Miss Veryan to do.”

  “Whatever it is, Miss Veryan doesn’t seem inclined to play along,” I said. “But that will depend on just how embarrassed Miss Veryan is over this supposed secret Dorinda claims to have uncovered.”

  “There must be something to it,” Giles said, “or Miss Veryan would have reacted differently, don’t you think? She didn’t really deny anything.”

  “No, she didn’t,” I said, considering. “We’ll have to keep that in mind.”

  Further speculation became impossible because a couple of the conference attendees approached us at that point. Evidently, George Austen-Hare had explained to several of the young women with whom he had been flirting just who I was, and two of them had come over to express their admiration for my work. While Giles glowered quietly at them and their attempts to flirt with me, I enjoyed the attention and Giles’s manifestation of jealousy. The dear boy has become much too proprietary toward me, and I refuse to indulge him. He’ll have to get over such behavior if he’s going to be around for very long.

  For the next half hour or so, I worked the room, moving from one group to the next, Giles dogging my heels, getting to know the various conference attendees. Though the group was largely female, several of the men were quite attractive, and Giles became even more taciturn as I chatted with some of them. Poor boy! He’s so terribly obvious, and for all his sophistication in other matters, in this he’s still quite callow.

  I was quite enjoying my conversation with a distinguished-looking older man, probably in his late fifties, when I saw Norah Tattersall finally managing to corner George Austen-Hare nearby. She had been trying for some time, quite unsuccessfully, to get him alone, but the last of the attractive young women in the room had finally eluded him, and Norah had seized her chance. While I listened with what appeared to be full attention to my conversational partner of the moment, I focused in on the chat taking place a few feet away from us, in an a
lcove by one of the windows in the room.

  “You’re not returning my calls, Georgie,” Norah said, her voice becoming even more unpleasant as it took on a distinct whine.

  “Told you, Norah,” Austen-Hare replied gruffly, “that it’s all over between us. Mistake in the first place—very obvious to me. Should have been to you, as well.”

  “Now, Georgie, don’t say such cruel things,” Norah cried. “You know how much I adore you! ”

  “Georgie” harrumphed. “Absolute balderdash, Norah, and you know it! All you want is to get that blasted book of yours published. Don’t know why you don’t just publish it yourself! Certainly have the money, don’t you!” With that, he squirmed out of her grasp and stalked away from her, leaving her openmouthed and sniffling.

  Unnoticed by me, Dorinda had been skulking nearby, and she chose this moment to intercept George, who looked anything but pleased to see her. Norah wandered away, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief. I had been trying to keep an eye on Dorinda as she worked the room. A few minutes earlier I had spotted her in conversation with Ashford Dunn. I hadn’t been close enough to hear what they were saying, but if I was any judge of body language, Dunn didn’t seem any more enamored of Dorinda than her other targets had been. Was she trying her hand at blackmailing all the authors present?

  My companion had by then realized my distraction, and fearing that he would find me rude, I forced my complete attention back to him. With an apologetic smile, I encouraged him to continue a description of his work-in-progress. Giles, who had wandered away to find something to drink, came back just then, and I had no further chance to eavesdrop.

  Though I was no longer hearing what was going on with George, I could at least see that George didn’t seem any fonder of Dorinda than Miss Veryan had been. Somehow I’d have to find out what it was that Dorinda had said to make George’s face take on such an alarming shade of red.