“What are your demands?” he asked, sounding tired.
I thought fast. “Everyone in the Baddesley Hall is to remain there. I don’t want to see a single car leave the premises, or I’ll detonate the bomb. I also want a package containing a first edition of Jane Austen’sMansfield Parkand a bottle of whisky from the Baddesley cellars to be left for me. Once I see the package has been dropped, I shall disarm the bomb, and on my word everyone will be able to leave.”
“Oh, oh,” Lydia jumped up and down. “Can I have a pony? I’ve always wanted a pony, but Father said they were frightfully expensive to keep when they could barely pull a carriage.”
I rolled my eyes.Fine, while we’re being ridiculous…“And I should like a purebred pony to be left with the book and the whisky.”
“I’ll see that it’s done,” Hayes said, his voice tight. “How will I reach you—”
“You don’t.” I yelped and hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed like it was made of molten lead.
Tears rolled down Morrie’s face. “A pony?” he sputtered, clutching his stomach as laughter rumbled through his body. “I hope you’re proud, gorgeous. That was the bravest, ballsiest thing you’ve ever done.”
“I don’t feel proud. I feelawful.Everyone out there will be panicking, and the police are going to waste precious resources dealing with this hoax, and all so we can have a shot at finding the killer.” I slumped down next to Heathcliff. “You were right. Why are we doing this? We should leave it to the experts.”
Morrie snorted. He sat up and planted a tender kiss on my cheek. “You really would make a terrible crook. Your pesky conscience keeps getting in your way.”
“I thought it was great fun!” Lydia piped up from the window. “Look, the coppers are scurrying about everywhere like little ants. They’re forcing everyone back inside the Hall.”
“Yes, well.” I shrugged. “I’ve bought us some time. Now, let’s find this killer.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“Easy, Mr. 173 IQ. We are going to puzzle it out, the way real detectives do it on TV.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
We didn’t have a whiteboard, the way cops in films always did, but we did have a giant impressionist painting across from the bed, and I discovered a pad of Post-it notes at the bottom of my purse. It would do.
Heathcliff, Morrie, Quoth, and Lydia sat along the bed. “Oh, are we playing charades?” Lydia cried. “What fun! I’ll go first, shall I?”
“No.” I stuck two Post-it notes in the middle of the board, one each for Professor Hathaway and Alice. Then, underneath, I added two more for the message written on our door, and for the faked suicide tape.
“These are the four crimes we need to focus on,” I pointed at them. “They’re all connected in some way. We’re assuming the same person did all four, but we know from Mrs. Scarlett’s murder that we can’t always assume that. What connects them?”
“Hathaway,” Morrie answered immediately. “He’s at the center of all of this. And the Jane Austen Experience, because we know that the killer was someone in the Hall.”
“We do?”
“I’ve run several mathematical models, and given the placement of staff and guests at the time, it’s impossible that it was someone from outside the house.”
“Right.” I stuck up another note. “And assuming we’re correct and Alice didn’t do it herself, and assuming Gerald wasn’t the killer either, we’ve got one main suspect. Professor Carmichael.”
“What’s our evidence?” Morrie asked, rubbing his chin.
I ticked off on my fingers. “She hated Hathaway. She publicly vowed to ruin him. She gave Alice the information about Hathaway’s late wife, so we know they were in contact. She had medical training, so she would have known how to dose him with the pills,andhow to push the blade in correctly.Andshe had motive for murdering Alice, in order to cover her tracks. If Alice revealed how she’d come by the information, the police would immediately suspect Carmichael.”
“And the message on your door?” Heathcliff pointed at the board. “Do you still think she considers you a threat?”
“That’s still a possibility, but perhaps we’ve misinterpreted what the message was about,” I said. “We thought it meant, ‘you’re next’ as in ‘you’re next to be stabbed’. What if it meant, ‘you’re next to be a victim of Hathaway’s wandering hands?’ While we were waiting for the ballroom to open, Professor Carmichael noticed Lydia on Hathaway’s lap. She made a disgusted face and strode away. Perhaps she went upstairs, wrote the message on our door to warn Lydia off, and then came back down and killed Hathaway—”
“Mina’s right. Maybe we’re looking at this all wrong,” Quoth said. “What if this murder isn’t an act of revenge, but one of love?”
“What do you mean?”
“On the video, Alice begs that her files are to be destroyed. If the killer added that, perhaps it’s not to cover their tracks but to prevent that information from going public and hurting someone they cared about. It’s like you said, Alice’s death is about is stopping her article. That’s why the killer wrote LIAR on her chest.”
I leaned over and kissed Quoth on the lips. “You’re a genius.”
