Death of a Cozy Writer

himself, and I do emphasize the ‘loosely’-had other conditions attached to gaining the title than just cash. The name Adrian goes back many centuries in the Beauclerk-Fisk clan. My father has his protagonist, born Joseph Evans, change his name to Montague Ruskin-Pall or some such rot, as a condition of being named heir. Do you see what I mean? It’s very possible all of us have a real surname of Bollocks or Dumbprat. You never knew what was true, not with Adrian. Not even if your name were your true name.”

Just then St. Just’s mobile rang. Holding up one hand to still Albert, he pulled it from his pocket and hit the answer button. Fear watched as the Chief Inspector’s face drained of color.

He walked to one end of the room, holding a hushed conversation. Ringing off after a few moments, he thoughtfully put the mobile away.

“Yes,” said St. Just, turning slowly to Albert. What in the world is the matter? wondered Fear. The man looks like he just heard his granny died. “I do begin to agree that nothing here is as it seems.”

***

Martha had been barred from cleaning the bedrooms until the police had completed their search, and her lack of attention was evident. While some attempt had been made to keep the clothes under control, a frilly cluster of bras hung from a bureau knob like a brace of grouse.

This one was probably called the Green Room, thought Fear, looking around at the gathered draperies looped extravagantly at the windows, the satiny tufted chairs near the fireplace. It was decorated in a shade he supposed his wife would call celery, but Fear felt it came perilously closer to the color of baby spit.

Natasha sat at a writing desk, evidently sketching a diagram of some sort. Sergeant Fear had had a race to keep up with St. Just as he stalked down the corridor from Albert’s room. Whatever had his superior upset, Sergeant Fear knew better than to say anything for the moment.

She glanced up from her work.

“George isn’t here, I’m afraid,” said Natasha.

“It’s not George we’ve come to see,” said St. Just. “I had rather an unusual call just now. Someone named Sir Michael Cheek, of Scotland Yard.”

He looked at her closely.

“Who are you, really, Miss Wellings?”

She smiled.

“If I told you, Inspector, I’d have to kill you.”

21. I SPY

“SORRY, CHIEF INSPECTOR. BAD joke. Detective Natasha Landeski of the Art and Antiques Unit at New Scotland Yard. That, as you know, is part of the Metropolitan Police Specialist Crime Operational Command Unit, or SO6. At your service.”

She held out her hand. St. Just looked at it as if a toad had sprouted in its palm.

Sergeant Fear, who had automatically flipped open his notebook, had heard enough. He shut his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, he drew a firm line under his notes and wrote beneath it, in large capital letters: FUCK.

Later, back at the station, he would take pains to blot this out, but for now, he let it stand. She really had led them up a garden path.

“I see my superior has finally notified you. I don’t have my real identification on me, for obvious reasons. My hands were tied until he gave the go-ahead to put you in the picture.”

St. Just stared at her coldly. If anything was more irritating than Scotland Yard on one’s turf, he had just decided it was Scotland Yard on one’s turf, incognito.

“What’s all this in aid of, then?” he asked.

“George, of course. Finding out what he’s really up to. And he’s up to quite a lot.”

“We ran a background check on George Beauclerk-Fisk. He came up clean-no form, at any rate.”

“He would. In your files, there would be little to implicate him-at least, not in the area of his activities in which we’re most interested. You can be certain the real investigative details aren’t in the shared database.”

“Why weren’t we told, dammit?” he demanded. “This was- is-a murder investigation.”

“I’m telling you now. It wasn’t my decision to make, it was Sir Cheek’s. My marching orders were to keep my cover, no matter what, and in my line of work, that means no matter what-I don’t have to tell you that. But now, as I say, my hands are untied. Let me give you a hint-”

“Thank you. That’s most kind. A hint from one of the professionals from London. Do take this down, Sergeant Fear; perhaps we can study it and learn from it later. Let’s have it, Miss Landeski, the whole story. If George so much as returned a videotape late, I want to know about it.”

“All right. Here you go, the short version: Almost nothing in this house is what it seems. I don’t mean the personalities-although heaven knows there’s a gold mine of dysfunction there-I mean the surroundings. The furnishings, the paintings. It’s a mixture of truly extraordinary art and antiques mixed in with the most extraordinary crap. It’s a bit hard to sort out because Sir Adrian had appalling taste to begin with, but-”

“But you think some kind of exchange has been going on.”

“Precisely.”

“The real goods, so to speak, substituted with fakes.”

“Precisely.” She beamed at him, a teacher acknowledging a promising student.

“George’s art gallery…”

“Those who can, do. Paint, that is. Those who can’t, buy art galleries. Those who really can’t make a go of that, steal, paying a starving artist to create passable substitute paintings or bits of furniture. Adrian was quite near-sighted; I tested him on that myself. He never knew the difference. If anyone else noticed, they assumed he’d been ripped off by a shady dealer, or that he was just exercising his naturally appalling taste.”

An electronic bleating erupted once again from the direction of Fear’s jacket.

“Jingle Bells,” laughed Natasha. “I say, that is jolly.”

“I thought I told you to get that thing seen to, Sergeant.”

“I tried, Sir. I.T. couldn’t figure it out, either.”

“Get Emma to change it back then.”

“She refuses, Sir.”

“For God’s sake…”

Turning again to Natasha, he said:

“How long has it been going on?”

“Since George developed expensive habits, at a guess. Drugs being the most expensive. He’s rather frugal when it comes to women. I have a theory-not yet proven-that in addition to the art theft, he’s found some of the furniture leaving the country is extremely useful for concealing whatever one wants to conceal. The earlier centuries were very clever about hidden compartments, for which the modern drug dealer has found much the same uses.”

“It’s Chloe Beauclerk-Fisk, Sir,” said Fear. “She’s been calling the station all morning, wanting to talk with you.”

“Later, Sergeant. So you’ve insinuated yourself with George, winning his confidence, to find out who the receivers are.”

“Precisely.”

“This deception includes having a child with him? Are you quite mad?”

“Of course not, Inspector. ‘All in the line of duty’ can be taken too far. That was George’s harebrained scheme, to get in good with his father. To stay on George’s good side, I had to play along. I was appalled, but what could I do? God, this family. When Ruthven was killed, I knew I was in over my head, but even then I couldn’t risk calling