The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [44]
Lady Gwendolyn, her face grave, sipped at her tea. As Max finished speaking, she refilled her cup. The tea (Lapsang souchong) was the color of old mud and looked strong enough to fell a horse. Absently, her gaze abstracted, she lifted her cup again.
“So you’re telling us,” Annie said grimly to her husband, “that we can’t do a damn thing!” She flung her napkin down on her barely nibbled lunch and bounced to her feet.
Max spread his hands helplessly. “He’s a bona fide registrant of the conference. He’s a lawful guest of the hotel. He hasn’t done anything illegal—”
“Yet!” Annie snarled.
“Annie, you can’t libel the dead.” Max’s voice was gentle, and his eyes filled with pity.
“I’ve always felt,” Laurel murmured, “that the best policy—for those of us among the living—is simply to ignore calumny. So often unkind remarks about one’s romantic adventures are simply a reflection of petty jealousy.”
“I’m sure,” Henny said dryly, “that you have had ample experience in these matters.”
Annie furiously paced across the living room of their suite, oblivious to the soft breeze flowing in from the balcony, the caramel-rich splash of sunlight touching the white wicker with gold. She jammed a hand wildly through her thick honey-colored hair. “That’s all wrong. Dead wrong,” she exploded. “Are you telling us he can say anything he wants to about Christie? Claim she chopped up her dogs for meat pie, fed poison to her cousins, planted plastic explosives in Harrod’s, and not a damn thing can be done about it?”
“It’s a matter of public policy,” Max explained. “You’d never get the truth about people’s actions in the past if every statement about a dead person was vulnerable to legal action for libel or slander.”
“It’s not right!” Annie wailed. “That means the minute you die, anybody can say anything they want to about you!”
“Truly venomous,” Laurel decreed.
“But dead ears can’t hear,” Henny pointed out.
Lady Gwendolyn slapped a plump hand against the tabletop. “There must be a solution!”
Max tapped the legal pad beside his plate. “The Christie estate might have a basis for an injunction on the grounds of trade injury if Bledsoe tried to publish a book containing unfounded assertions that might damage the commercial value of her books.”
Annie stopped pacing and looked hopeful. Laurel clapped her hands excitedly. Lady Gwendolyn leaned forward eagerly, but Henny started shaking her head.
Max shrugged ruefully. “Annie, we are not the Christie estate. Even there, a strong argument could be made that notoriety sells a hell of a lot of books, witness the sales spurt of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd after her disappearance in 1926.”
“It isn’t right,” Annie said again, her voice shaking. And she understood so well Mary Drawer’s angry response to the murder of her aunt in The ABC Murders. It wasn’t right! Neil Bledsoe’s attack on Agatha Christie wasn’t right. It was akin to murder to willfully and viciously try to destroy the image of a gallant and kindly woman whose creative gifts were second to none.
Max absently munched on a carrot curl. “Annie, don’t borrow trouble. Bledsoe’s probably just raising a little hell. He hasn’t actually done anything yet.”
“What can he do?” Henny asked practically. “I think everyone’s overreacting. For God’s sake, this creep can’t hurt Agatha Christie!”
“What about tomorrow? What about his grand announcement session in the Palmetto Court?” Annie paused in front of the island mural.
Lady Gwendolyn’s cup rattled sharply against her saucer. “But his threat may be only the tip of the iceberg.” She pursed her softly rounded lips.
Everyone looked at her respectfully.
“Think,” she commanded her listeners. “Obviously today’s performance is just the beginning.