So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 (16 page)

"You must tell me everything, Mr. Smith," Sanjay said. "You and Mr. Neville Turnmarsh had a falling out?"

"No, no," Plant said. "We didn't—that is I didn't know him well enough to fall out with him. I'd only met him once, the night of the bombing—or whatever it was—at the Old Vic."

"So you two worked together on the bomb? Was Mr. Turnmarsh angry you claimed sole responsibility when speaking to the BBC?"

Sanjay somehow kept smiling as he spoke this nonsense.

"Responsibility? For a bombing? What are you talking about? Was it a bombing? I haven't seen any newspapers, so I don't know. The people I talked to thought it was an accident."

"Then why did you announce to the world that you believe King Richard III should not have been buried at Leicester?"

This was going from bad to worse.

"That wasn't what I meant at all. I made a joke. A bad one. I'd just had a shock. And vodka. A stiff one. I hypothesized that the accident might have been caused by the ghost of Richard III, because that was the play we'd seen: Shakespeare's
Richard III
. Except I didn't get to see it. Not the second act. I got shut out because my iPhone had been stepped on and..."

"Mr. Smith, you must not lie to me. The London police are not imbeciles. They found residue from the bomb on your raincoat, which had your airplane ticket stub in the pocket. You also spoke to the BBC about Richard's burial. The whole world saw it. Everybody knows you Plantagenets want him buried at York Minster."

"We Plantagenets? I'm the only Plantagenet I know. I chose the name for exactly that reason. I thought it would be unique. I suppose it was pretentious of me, but what Princeton freshman isn't pretentious?"

Sanjay's smile now looked more like a grimace.

"Mr. Smith, I will not play games with you. Are you—or are you not—a member of the Plantagenet Circle?"

"Not. I still have no idea what a Plantagenet Circle is. The first I heard of it was from Piglet and Pooh...that is, the detectives who interrogated me yesterday."

Neville had indeed talked quite a bit about "the circle". He might have thought Plant was a member because of his name. That would make some sense.

"Does this circle have something to do with the accident at the Old Vic?" Plant stood and looked Sanjay in the eye.

"They have claimed responsibility, yes."

"So you think I had something to do with this...bombing? You definitely think it was a bomb?"

"What I think is not of the slightest consequence, Mr. Smith. What matters is what the investigators in London think. Will you answer my questions?"

Sanjay's smile was gone. He gave Plant a long, penetrating look.

"Of course." Plant figured he'd better wait to ask his own questions later. He sat at the end of the bunk and put on what he hoped was a cooperative expression.

"You claim you are not a member of this group?"

"Absolutely. I hadn't even heard the name until last night. Neville talked about a 'circle' but I had no idea it was a terrorist group. Or that it had anything to do with Plantagenets. To tell the truth, I thought it was some sort of Brit euphemism for gay. I also don't have the slightest interest in where King Richard III's poor old bones are buried."

Sanjay raised an eyebrow at the mention of gay euphemisms, but otherwise showed no emotion as he took another swipe at his iPad.

"Since you had in your possession a document that describes the placement of the bomb detonated at the Old Vic Theatre by this organization, the chaps in London think you look worthy of their attention. Of course in your written version, there is much more carnage. Your friends in the Circle are not very good at bomb-making, I hear."

Maybe young Sanjay wasn't quite right in the head.

"I am not friends with any circles, Plantagenet or otherwise—and I have no idea what you mean by a document. What document?" Plant was finding it tough to keep his cooperative face on.

"You had a large typescript in your bag when you were detained. Do you deny it?"

"Are you talking about Alfred's awful screenplay?
The Kingdom of Perpetual Night
? You read that thing?"

"The document has that title, yes. And yes, I perused it in the evidence room. A copy has been sent to London. It describes a terrorist plot to force her majesty's government to bury King Richard III at York Minster, in a Catholic ceremony, with the Queen in attendance."

"Dear Lord." Plant ran his fingers through his hair, realizing he probably did look like a terrorist. "I thought it might be something like that, from what the detectives said, but honestly, I didn't read the thing. I only got to page ten before I gave up. You've got to admit it's a terrible script. All that exposition..."

"You claim you did not write this document?"

"Of course I didn't. I'm a professional writer. That's a load of amateurish dreck. It was given to me by the desk clerk at my hotel in London. I'm sure somebody can verify it. Alfred, his name is. The clerk."

"Why did he give it to you?"

"Because he thinks I have clout in Hollywood. I have an Oscar, you see."

Sanjay gave a harsh laugh.

"Now you are a movie star? Mr. Smith, you must stop wasting my time."

"I'm a screenwriter. I wrote
Wilde in the West
. It won an Academy Award five years ago. But five years is a long time in Hollywood years."

"
Wilde in the West
?  The film about Oscar Wilde and Calamity Jane? But that is a brilliant film! It was on Sky TV just last week." Sanjay's smile was back. He tapped on his iPad, studied it carefully and then let out a laugh. "So you are. Here is your name at IMDB. 'Screenplay by Plantagenet Smith'. This is your legal name?"

"Yes, it is my legal name. It's on my passport. Which the police have taken. I do hope you can get it back soon."

"You do not write under the name Alfred Duffield?'

"I do not. And I have never written a screenplay that terrible. Well, at least not since my undergraduate days."

Sanjay beamed as he tapped on his iPad.

"Aha. Very interesting. I am delighted to have that sorted. You are not Alfred Duffield. You did not write this document. These are things that can be proved. Facts. Lovely facts. Now perhaps I can keep them from filing the charges."

Plant heaved a sigh of relief. He knew that if the police didn't charge him, they had to let him go in a day or two. He'd watched enough BBC murder mysteries to know that.

"You can keep them from filing charges?"

"If your story can be verified by MI5, yes."

"MI5? Aren't they like the CIA? Spies and that sort of thing? I didn't know they dealt with murder cases."

"They do not deal with local murder cases, no. They do deal with terrorism. And I believe I can prove you are not a terrorist."

"And the murder charges?"

"Oh, you will be charged with murder, Mr. Smith, I have no doubt. They are still gathering evidence, but they think they have a case. This is why they have applied to hold you past the usual 24 hours. They can hold you up to 96 hours when you are suspected of murder."

Sanjay motioned to the custody officer and left the cell, still smiling.

––––––––

I
knew I shouldn't have done it, but it had seemed so right at the time.

Last night was a blur. The news about Plant had been devastating, and Peter was there. So very much there—alive and powerful and protective.

Also way too sexy for me to resist. I might even have been the one to make the first move. The memory was fuzzy, but I thought I remembered twirling the desk chair around and planting a kiss on his cute, smirky mouth.

I had been a little tipsy. Well, more than a little.

So now I had a hangover. And I'd overslept. And Peter was snoring beside me.

I wasn't sure I wanted him to be there.

I tried to sort the jumble in my brain as I took a quick shower. I had to get myself together so I could open the shop. Then I had to find a way to get hold of Silas Ryder, the creep. Did he even know his husband was all alone on the other side of the planet, accused of a murder he didn't commit?

Well, I assumed he didn't commit it.

According to
The Daily Mail
, the deceased was one Neville Turnmarsh, 34, a Tesco "customer delivery agent" originally from London, now living in Doncaster, whose hobby was reenacting scenes from English medieval history. From his photo on the website, it looked as if he'd been rather handsome, in a fierce, Russell Brand kind of way.

I could imagine Plant would have found him attractive.

Could Plantagenet have got himself involved in some sordid fling?
The Daily Mail
certainly hinted at it.

Maybe Plant hadn't returned any of my calls because he was ashamed he was cheating on his new husband.

No. That made no sense.

For one thing, Plant usually waited until the third or fourth date before he got physically involved. He was very holier-than-thou about that.

Besides, he had been in London two nights ago, when the accident, or whatever it was, happened at the Old Vic. He couldn't have been out of London for more than a day. Not much time to fall so deeply in love with somebody from Doncaster that he'd want to murder him.

I tiptoed out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. I wanted to dress quickly and get myself to the store without waking Peter. I didn't want to interact with him until I knew exactly how I felt about last night.

But it was too late.

Buckingham gave a loud meow from the living room, where he'd been banished to avoid the threesome he seemed to have in mind. He scratched loudly at the bedroom door. The shower must have alerted him that the keeper of the can-opener was awake.

Peter rolled over and opened his eyes.

"You do look lovely in a towel, Ms. Randall," he said. "But you must be chilly. Do come back to bed."

He sat up and reached for me.

His chest had developed some awfully nice muscles from whatever he did on that Australian ship. Or maybe the Tasmanian prison.

"I can't. I need to get into my clothes, scarf down some breakfast and get over to the store. It's after nine. I'm usually in my office by now."

I chose a top and slacks from my closet and dug in my dresser for clean undies.

Just as I grabbed a bra and dropped the towel, I heard somebody knock on the front door. With considerable force.

"Damn." I madly tried to hook the bra. "I have no idea who that is. Jen isn't due until noon. I hope it's not a customer. Or a Tudor-hating reviewer."

"No worries." Peter grabbed his jeans from the floor. "I'll see who it is and make sure it's not a monster from the Amazon jungle."

I didn't particularly want to announce to the world that I was sleeping with my formerly dead publisher, but the stupid bra hooks would not fasten and Peter was already out the door, zipping his fly.

I could hear the shirtless Peter greeting somebody in a rather formal tone of voice. Double damn.

I prayed it wasn't a customer.

A moment later I recognized the voice. Marva.

No. Not Marva. Marvin. He sounded agitated.

I finally managed to hook the bra and scramble into my clothes.

"Marvin," I said, rushing into the front room in my bare feet. "What's wrong?" Marvin wore some sort of yoga pants with a pilled gray sweatshirt and not a trace of make-up. Maybe he'd been in the middle of a workout when he decided to come over.

"Thank god you have somebody here with you, Camilla." Marvin grabbed me in a warmer than usual hug. "Mr. Stygar has introduced himself. Don't bother to apologize for getting over Ronzo so quickly. I'm proud of you." He delivered the last remark in a loud stage whisper.

"Who's Ronzo?" Peter said.

"Can I make you all some coffee?" I did not want to have to explain Ronzo to Peter at this point. "Have a seat at the table. I'm running late. I need to get to the store."

I put water in the Mr. Coffee and some heaping scoops of French Roast. I required heavy caffeinating this morning.

"So do tell me what brings you here on a Monday morning, Marvin?"

"To apologize, of course," Marvin said. "And to tell you it wasn't me. I only just found out." He sat heavily on a Chippendale dining chair. "I hope you can forgive me."

"Is this about Plantagenet Smith?" Peter politely took the chair from the living room desk and moved it to the dining table rather than take the other of the two dining chairs. For a criminal who looked like a rough fisherman, Peter certainly could be a gentleman.

"Oh, no," Marvin said. "Plant can be snarky, and he does hate Camilla's ex-husband, but he'd never do anything like this. No. This is the work of... I don't know. It must be a very skilled hacker."

"Her ex-husband? Jonathan Kahn, the newsman?" Peter gave a rough laugh. "I thought he was on a permanent bender somewhere in Southeast Asia."

I wondered how Peter knew so much about my ex. I generally avoided talking about him. The Manners Doctor considered it rude to talk about exes with a current significant other.

Marvin nodded and rolled his eyes.

I managed to go through the motions of making coffee, but my whole body felt numb. Whatever Marvin was talking about was going to be terrible. Apparently even more terrible than Plant's arrest. And anything that involved my drunken ex-husband couldn't be good. Jonathan had once used Marva/Marvin's dominatrix services, which Marva had turned into a blackmail opportunity.

Of course that was when Jonathan still had enough money to be worth blackmailing.

"What are you talking about, Marvin?" I tried to keep the anger from my voice, but my words sounded shrill. "What on earth does any of this have to do with Jonathan Kahn?"

"You haven't seen it? It's all over Twitter. You haven't been online this morning, have you?"

Peter wheeled his chair back to the desk and booted up my laptop.

"Camilla is not a devotee of social media," Peter said. "Which is a good thing at the moment. Some review bullies and lunatic Yorkshiremen have been saying the most appalling things about her."