Walter and Sam, she envied their ease with each other. There was a past there that she wasn’t a part of, and although Sam had been nothing but friendly to her, she still found herself a little bit jealous.
“You two go on,” she said. “I’ll be down in a bit.”
She welcomed the time to herself to enjoy the solitude the keep provided and think about all that had happened over the past few days. The appearance of Joshua, the revelation of Crispin’s Needle, the church at Cripple Minton, and the martyrdom of St. Apollonia—it was all terribly thrilling. Even the thought of the Tedious Three filled her with excitement. They were all pieces of a puzzle, one she was fitting together bit by bit. What it would look like when, or if, it was ever completed she didn’t know. But it was undeniably intriguing. If Crispin’s Needle
Suddenly a scream filled the air, startling her. Turning to her right she was just in time to see Ryan McGuinness leap from the wall of the tower. He hung in the air for a moment, more or less horizontal, his arms and legs moving as if he were trying to fly, or perhaps swim. Then he fell. Jane leaned over the edge of the keep and watched as he plummeted, still screaming and flailing, the two hundred and something (at that moment she couldn’t recall the exact number) feet to the ground. Being as how the fall was a great one, and being as how the ground was more like a courtyard made of cobblestones, Ryan’s arrival at the bottom did little to allay his anxiety. Rather, it resulted in a satisfying
Jane had only a moment in which to reflect on the peculiar and disturbing beauty of a dead body sprawled across the stones of a three-hundred-year-old castle before the sound of numerous voices raised in alarm reached her ears. This caused her to regain her senses and, now properly distressed, she raced down the 299 steps and out the tower door. There she found herself standing on one side of Ryan McGuinness’s lifeless body while the other members of the tour group stared at her.
The first to speak was Brodie. “What happened?” he asked.
“I … I don’t know,” Jane said.
“But you were up there with him,” Genevieve said.
“No,” said Jane. “I mean yes, I was up there, but we weren’t there together, if you see what I mean. And there were others there as well.”
Genevieve looked around, her mouth moving silently as she used one long finger to count heads. When she was done she returned her gaze to Jane. “Actually,” she said, “it was only the two of you up there. The rest of us were down here.”
“Then he must have jumped,” Jane said, her voice sounding more defensive than she intended. “You all saw him fall.”
“He didn’t jump.” Enid, who until now had been staring at the crumpled body of her lover, looked up at Jane. “He was afraid of heights. It took everything in him just to go up there, and I assure you he stayed as far way from the edge as possible.”
“Apparently not,” Jane said, returning Enid’s steely gaze.
Someone cleared his throat. Then Bergen spoke in his monotone voice. “I’m afraid I must agree with Ms. Woode’s evaluation of the situation,” he said. “The angle of fall is inconsistent, suggesting greater force than could be achieved by merely jumping.”
“See!” Enid cried. “He was pushed!”
Bergen nudged his glasses up his nose. “That is not quite correct either,” he said. Jane thought perhaps she detected just the merest hint of a smile on his face as he looked at her. “He was thrown.”
Chapter 12
Thursday: Ireland
Inspector Clooney Nesbitt sat on the sofa in the front parlor of the Inn of the White Roses and scribbled on the pad in his hand. His pen had stopped writing, and he was trying to get the ink flowing again. Jane sat in an armchair across from him. In between them, on a low table covered with a pretty lace cloth, sat a pot of tea, two cups on saucers, and a plate of digestive biscuits. Jane looked longingly at the biscuits but didn’t dare take one, afraid that doing so might suggest an air of frivolity. She was, she felt, in enough trouble as it was.
The inspector had already interviewed the other members of the party. That he had saved Jane for last struck her as a bit peculiar. If it had been she who was conducting the investigation into Ryan McGuinness’s death, she would have begun with the most likely suspect, which even she had to acknowledge was herself. It would, she thought, give her less time to concoct an explanation for how Ryan might have been launched from the top of the keep without her assistance. As it was, nearly two hours had passed, which was more than enough time for her to have made up a story should she have needed one.
“Now then,” said the inspector when his pen resumed working properly. “Why don’t you tell me about your relationship to the deceased.”
Clooney Nesbitt was not a young man. He had gray hair that was cut short so as to minimize the appearance of his bald spot, a fine, thick mustache that at the moment wanted a little trimming, and bright blue eyes that Jane, if she had conjured him as a character in one of her novels, would have described as the sort of eyes that tended to put innocent people at ease and make guilty people believe that he was not as smart as he really was. In both instances, she imagined, those at whom he directed his gaze were inclined to tell him more than they had expected to.
Jane might have found herself influenced by his eyes as well were she not focused on the digestive biscuits. As it was she found herself saying, “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”
Nesbitt did so, making a notation on his pad at the same time. Jane, knowing full well that whatever he was writing was about her, wished she could see what else was on the yellow pad. What, for instance, had Inspector Nesbitt written down about Walter, or Lucy, or Ben, all of whom he had interviewed? And what had he made of Miriam and her three-legged dog?
“Miss Fairfax?”
The inspector’s voice reminded Jane that she still had not answered his question. “None whatsoever,” she said.
“Begging your pardon?” he said.
“My relationship to the deceased,” Jane said. “There was none whatsoever. I hadn’t even heard of him before this trip.”
The inspector made another notation. “And what was your opinion of the gentleman?”
Jane considered the question. Inspector Nesbitt was looking at her with those clear blue eyes.
“I really haven’t known him long enough to form an opinion,” she replied. “
“Indeed,” said Nesbitt. “But surely you had some interactions with Mr. McGuinness before his death.”
“No,” Jane said. “As I keep telling people, I was nowhere near him when he jumped. Or fell. Or whatever it is that he did.”
“Actually, I was referring to interactions that might have occurred in the previous few days,” said the inspector. “Since you first made his acquaintance. However, we will return to the moments before the incident shortly.”
Jane coughed anxiously.
