So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 (12 page)

Buckingham sauntered over and jumped on Peter's lap.

This did nothing to soothe my anger. So far, the cat had shunned my own lap and had only ventured as far as sitting next to me on the couch.

"All right." Peter stroked Buckingham, who immediately began to purr. "I suppose you know about how they recently found Richard's bones in a car park in Leicester, not far from Swynsby."

I nodded. I realized I'd put myself in a corner here. I would have liked to finish my own cognac, but I'd be wildly impolite to drink it in front of him when I was forcing him to drink tap water.

"But you probably don't know about
The Poisonous Bunch-Back Toad."
Peter made a face as he sipped more water.

"Isn't that what Shakespeare called Richard III in the play?"

Plant had been telling me about the play, since he was so excited about seeing Kevin Spacey in the part.

"It's also the name of a novel. A rather good novel, written by one Hinckley Lutterworth. Published by our Major Oak imprint several months ago."

I gasped as things started to fall into place. That's why the Lutterworth name had sounded slightly familiar.

"Oh, yes. It's a bestseller. We've ordered it but it hasn't come in."

Peter nodded. "Mr. Lutterworth attempts to prove that Mr. Shakespeare was right in his portrait of Richard III and portrays Henry Tudor as the heroic savior of England. Pradeep Balasubramariam, who edited your book, acquired Lutterworth's book for us. Henry Weems approved it. I would have too, if I'd been available, although unfortunately I was living in a remote part of Tasmania at the time. Whilst I was in Risdon Vale, I had no access to communications from the outside world..."

I found this all rather ominous. Not only was Hinckley Lutterworth the name mentioned in my threatening reviews and email, but I also knew the name Risdon Vale. It had featured in an Australian crime novel I'd read a few weeks ago.

"Risdon Vale?" I said. "Isn't that a prison? Have you been smuggling faux designer handbags again?"

Peter gave me an infuriatingly cute smile.

"Not handbags. Never again. No this was watches. And yes, Risdon Vale is a prison." Peter took another gulp from his glass. "But they served me considerably better-tasting water."

––––––––

P
lant counted out the big brown pound coins and gave them to the man in puffy pants.

"You'll want to see upstairs first," the man said with a begrudging smile. "They close up the bedrooms first. And the tower."

Plant climbed the narrow stairs. People must have had much smaller feet 500 years ago. He had to balance on his toes.

They'd obviously been shorter, too. The elegant canopied bed in the master bedroom looked as if it would accommodate maybe a ten-year-old and a smallish cocker spaniel.

Plant checked his watch. Ten minutes until four. If he was going to get his six pounds worth, he should probably go to the tower first. The brochure said the views were spectacular.

The lights dimmed—probably a signal for visitors to wrap up their tours.

He followed the floor plan printed on the brochure and walked quickly past the bedrooms, heading for the small arched doorway to the tower.

He could hear someone coming down the hallway at a run. Another tourist in a hurry to see everything, no doubt.

But when runner came around the corner, Plant could see he was one of the performers. He wore velvet and gold cloth, and a rather spectacular hat. Young and handsome, with a black Prince Valiant haircut. He held is right shoulder slightly higher than his left.

This was somebody impersonating Richard III himself.

He must have been recently reenacting the battle of Bosworth or some other strenuous historical scene. His pale face glistened with sweat. There was a smear of something reddish on his sleeve that looked like blood.

He grabbed Plant's arm.

"So much for Buckingham," he said.

Plant gave what he hoped was an appreciative smile.

"Of course," he said, remembering his Shakespeare class at Princeton. 'Off with his head. So much for Buckingham': the most famous line of Shakespeare that Shakespeare never wrote. As I remember it was added by some eighteenth-century actor..."

"We had nowt to do wi' it," the man said in some archaic dialect. "Them in the Tower. It weren't us what killed them."

He seemed to be speaking with the royal "we". Apparently the actor/reenactor was staying in character—very much the Josephine Tey version of Richard: A bit of a victim, very good-looking, and oh, so innocent.

"So I've read." Plant moved toward the tower door. "I've just been reading
The Daughter of Time
. I understand many people believe you were an excellent king who didn't murder any princes."

"Not princes. Dukes," Richard said. "Two dukes. Dead as doornails. In the bleeding tower."

The man might look the Richard part, but he seemed a bit confused. Maybe even high. His eyes were glassy. Plant made a dramatic look at his watch.

"I only have ten more minutes, they tell me. Is that the tower door?" He pointed at the archway.

The actor nodded. "You don't want to go there. Not now."

"I realize I only have a few minutes. I'll walk fast".

"You have been warned." Richard dashed down the hallway in less than regal fashion. Probably running outside for some of that mead. He looked as if he might have worked up a powerful thirst.

Behind the arched doorway was a spiral staircase enclosed in stone: a steep, claustrophobic tube. The tower was taller than it had looked from the ground. Plant was panting by the time he got to the top.

He heard the minstrels from the green below as he stepped out onto the tower roof. Unfortunately the place gave off a god-awful smell, as if somebody had been using the roof as a toilet.

He could see the Morris Dancers—tiny from here—doing their ritualistic steps out on the green.

But he was not alone in the tower.

A reenactor was still here. Not two princes—or dukes—but one. One man dressed in aristocratic medieval finery. Taking a nap. Maybe passed out from too much mead.

The actor lay on his side, with his face toward the wall, in what looked like an uncomfortable sleeping position.

Then Plant saw he lay in a pool of ooze—a reddish puddle that stained the floor of the tower. And some spatter on the stone wall beside him. Plant felt queasy. He'd never been able to stomach the sight of blood.

As he fought dizziness, he stepped around to look at the man's face, hoping somehow he might be alive—simply reenacting a bloody historical scene.

But he looked quite dead.

He also looked quite like Neville, his mysterious friend from the Old Vic.

––––––––

P
eter's elfin grin filled me with a combination of anger and what I had to admit was attraction.

The man could still charm me.

Why wasn't I immune by now? He'd just admitted he'd recently been in prison.

"The book?" I said, trying to get back to the situation at hand. "What do Hinckley Lutterworth and his book have to do with me?"

Peter petted Buckingham, who was purring away on his lap. They looked totally at home, lounging happily on my couch. I wished I could feel that relaxed.

"
The Poisonous Bunch-Back Toad
is a brilliant book," Peter said. "Well written and fast paced. We got it to a reviewer at the
Times
who compared Lutterworth favorably to Hilary Mantel. He hit the bestseller lists in England and America within weeks."

"Yes. I know. I remember the title now. I do run a bookstore. My Sherwood order hasn't arrived yet from Ingram."

"And it won't, I'm afraid. Our inventory was destroyed. The attackers broke into the factory and dragged the pallets of Lutterworth's books into the car park and set them on fire. In the name of Richard III, apparently. They also trashed the building. As you saw.”

"That was over a historical novel?" I wondered if Peter might not be making this up as he went along. "I can't believe people would be that violent because of a man who's been dead for over 500 years. Are they still fighting the Wars of the Roses?"

Peter let out a big laugh.

"Yes. That's exactly what they're doing. They were joined by some tossers from Doncaster—Yorkists all—who were in town for a football match and fueled by quantities of beer from the Merry Miller down the road. They took all the pub's dustbins and hurled the contents at the factory. Broke several windows, injured Henry Weems, and terrified Vera out of her wits. Liam and Davey, apparently trying to protect her honor, were swept up in the melee and when the police arrived, they arrested Liam and Davey as well as the miscreants."

"Oh, my goodness. Are they still in jail?"

"No. They weren't charged with anything, but they were shaken. They've both been inside before, you know. Now they've gone to stay with friends, since the Maidenette building isn't habitable with so many windows broken. Vera escaped with a few cuts and bruises, and Henry is still recovering after a night in hospital in Nottingham. "

"What about everybody else? Charlie Vicars and Pradeep and Meggy—did they get hurt?"

"Luckily Pradeep and Meggy are safely off in Mumbai. He's come into some money, so they've been taking an extended vacation to introduce their new baby to his relatives. But the place is unusable until clean-up can be done, which won't happen until Henry is back to health and can hire some cleaners and glaziers."

"What about the author? This Hinckley Lutterworth? Why are they attacking him on my book pages? Why aren't they stalking him?"

"Because nobody knows where he is. Nobody's even met him. Well, except Pradeep, but he's keeping everything very hush-hush. Mr. Lutterworth has no online presence and all we know is he lives somewhere in the East Midlands. Perhaps Leicester."

"Where they found Richard III's body?"

Peter nodded and took a sip of water—without the drama this time.

"Yes. And if they find him, he'll be in serious danger from these lunatics. Henry managed to contact me and convinced me it was time for Peter Sherwood to be resurrected from his watery grave to deal with the crisis. And the first thing I discovered when I came ashore and went to an Internet café was that the attacks had gone digital and landed on the pages of all the Sherwood authors. You included."

Somehow this made me feel better.

"So I'm not the only author who's had those horrible reviews?" 

"You were probably an especially juicy target, because you're well known and you don't use a pseudonym. Most of our authors do because they write erotica, which means they aren't as easy to attack personally. Besides, nobody expects Rodd Whippington or Dirk Scabbard to be upset by a few obscene remarks. Then there's the matter of your name. 'Camilla' is not a popular name in the U.K. right now. Prince Charles' second wife is not beloved."

That made sense, sort of.

"I guess that makes me feel better. It's so bizarre to be hated for no reason."

"Unfortunately, now they have a reason."

"Because I commented on a review? These people throw verbal rocks at me and if I say 'ouch', I'm the bad guy?"

Peter smiled as if this were somehow amusing.

"They appear to be mostly a different gang of rock-throwers. Your response to the review brought out a whole new tribe of Internet bullies: the ones who live in the Amazon fora and at Book Reviews dot Com. People like "Jezbellzbooks", "Pottymouth" and "TrashyBooks". They're even more vicious than the Yorkists. And much worse spellers. Do you suppose one could really do that with a garden gnome?"

I took a deep breath. I didn't want to think of the horrors threatened by those "reviewers."

"So I'm being attacked by two different groups of homicidal rapists?"

"So it would seem. And they appear to be stealing each other's rhetoric."

"And we don't know which ones are threatening to kill me?"

"My money would be on the lads from Doncaster. They call themselves the Plantagenet something-or-other, so they may not even have intended to use your friend's name. You should consider that a comfort. We're a long way from Yorkshire, but those book review vigilantes could be anywhere."

He drained his glass and gave me a good-little-boy grin.

I sighed and went to the kitchen for the Courvoisier. I gave him a short pour.

"I guess you've earned this." I sipped from my own snifter, wondering how my alter ego, the Manners Doctor, would advise someone in my situation. It's not as if there were a set of rules for dealing with criminal, but helpful, ex-lovers who have recently become un-deceased.

"Thank you, lass." Peter looked at me over the snifter with that adorable sparkle in his eye. It had lured me to work against my better judgement more than once.

I fought the urge to forgive and forget as Buckingham jumped from Peter's lap and sauntered across the table toward me. I did not want the cat to get comfortable on the furniture, but this was not the time to be discussing feline manners training. I tried to wave him off, but the cat curled up on the table and began to wash.

I decided to ignore him and looked back at Peter.

"So you came all the way up here to warn me to avoid responding to reviews? It's lovely to see you, Peter, really, and very nice to know you are still among the living, but I do get email, you know. It's the same address I've had for years."

Peter laughed again. "I could have shot you an email from the Wi-Fi café in Los Angeles, I suppose, but would you have opened it? I don't have an account in the name of Peter Sherwood, for obvious reasons, and you might have been skeptical of a warning that came from a complete stranger."

I had to admit he was right on that, especially after the email from last night.

"And it's not simply about the reviews," Peter said. "These people are obviously capable of much worse, so I wanted to give you the full story in person. I felt I owed you that. This nonsense has caused a lot of fallout for our authors. Unfortunately, you seem to be getting the brunt of it. Not at all fair for someone who is so kind."