The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [76]
“Lady Tompkins,” she corrected icily.
“Mrs. Tompkins,” Posey rejoined stubbornly.
The battle was joined at that instant.
“Can you explain La—Mrs. Tompkins, how a garment belonging to you became stained with what is apparently the blood of a murdered man?”
If a plump, Kewpie-doll face could look mulish, hers did. “No.” She did not amplify.
There was a tense pause. Annie glanced at Max. But he was watching Posey.
Lady Gwendolyn tilted her head (always a danger with coronet braids) and looked up inquiringly. “Can you?”
Posey gave her an incredulous, indignant glance and took a deep breath. Only Saulter’s arrival prevented an explosion. As it was, Posey’s face was dangerously red when he swung around in answer to Saulter’s call.
“Okay, Brice. Body’s gone. Homicide team’s still working. The hotel wants to know if they can clean up when we get finished.”
“Oh, my dear chap, I must advise against it,” Lady Gwendolyn interjected serenely. “And I would like to study the scene as soon as possible. Your chaps may have overlooked some telling detail.”
“We may have overlooked—” Posey snorted. “Madam, the day I let unauthorized nonprofessionals into a crime scene is—”
“—the day you might learn something useful, Mister Posey. By the by, what is the victim’s real name?”
If Lady Gwendolyn wanted a stunned silence, she got it. Unconcernedly, she restored two bronze hairpins to her braids.
“It’s not Bentley?” Max asked, puzzled.
Annie clapped her hands to her head. Sugar cutter. James Bentley! Oh, heavens!
Saulter tensed. He looked like a G-man who’s just been told Baby Face Floyd is holed up inside a barricaded warehouse.
But it was the sudden transformation of Posey that appalled Annie. The bright red flush faded. His porcine lips parted in a cunning smile. “How very interesting, Mrs. Tompkins, that you know this young man was registered under an assumed name. Surely you want to share with officers of the law the background to your acquaintance with this unfortunate young man.”
A sniff of disgust. The coronet braid quivered and slid a bit as she flipped her aristocratic head in irritation. “I say, don’t you see the parallel? It’s quite blatant. One of Christie’s best books: Mrs. McGinty’s Dead. James Bentley lodged with Mrs. McGinty. He was convicted of bashing her head in with a sugar cutter.”
“Jesus!” Posey exclaimed.
“Of course, our crime differs markedly since in this case it is the man known as Bentley who was slain with the sugar cutter. However, it should be obvious that a parallel was intended. Now”—Lady Gwendolyn gestured vigorously with her umbrella (it was perhaps unfortunate that Posey flinched)—“it’s interesting here to speculate.” A broad sweep of the umbrella punctuated each query.
“Is there an unhinged Christie addict on the premises?
“Was the young man murdered because he assumed the name of a Christie character?
“Is the assumed name irrelevant?
“What information did this young chap intend to proffer to Annie?”
And it all came together for Annie. “Bentley!” she exclaimed. “That’s the name of the guy who ran up Saturday night and said he saw the gunman in the bushes near the site of the old playhouse!”
Saulter grabbed his notebook from his back pocket and riffled through the pages until he found the one he sought. “I’ll be damned. He sure as hell is. Was.”
“Now that adds yet another fascinating element,” Lady Gwendolyn mused, ignoring Posey. “It puts a new light on tonight’s message for Annie. That’s the place to start. What did our young victim see Saturday night?”
Posey teetered forward, brows drawn in a heavy frown. “Oh no, madam. The place to begin is—with you!” And he thrust a beefy forefinger at the fragile old lady.
Wednesday, September 12.
During her months of planning, Annie had envisioned Wednesday, the midpoint of the conference, as a rather low-key day, with plenty of panels available, but with the focus on hard-to-find films of the Christie novels. Her thought had been that some conference-goers might elect to sightsee on that day, perhaps driving to Beaufort or Charleston. It would