Docketful of Poesy
Read Docketful of Poesy Online
Authors: Diana Killian
What Others are Saying About
Docketful of Poesy
Full of wit, charm, and perfectly planned suspense,
Diana Killian’s Docketful of Poesy is everything a reader could
want. Any fan of Elizabeth Peters’ Vicky Bliss should grab for with
both hands and prepare for an exquisite treat!
Tasha Alexander, author of the Lady Emily Hargreaves
series.
Diana Killian is in top form in Docketful of Poesy.
In this charming series Killian combines the best of traditional
English mystery-writing (think Agatha Christie and Margery
Allingham) with just the right dash of romantic suspense (think
Mary Stewart and Phyllis A. Whitney). She can't write fast enough
for me!
Dean James, Agatha and Macavity Award-winning
co-author of By a Woman's Hand and Deadly Women.
Docketful of Poesy
Smashwords Ebook edition, November 2011
Copyright (c) 2011 by Diana Killian
Cover photo licensed through Shutterstock
Cover by Kevin Burton Smith
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
ISBN: 978-1-937909-99-4
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons
living or dead is entirely coincidental.
DOCKETFUL OF POESY
A Poetic Death Mystery
Diana Killian
Table of Contents
Prologue
Where there is mystery, it is
generally suspected there must also be evil.
—Lord Byron
T
he bite of spade and shovel
on stone echoed off the pillars of the Gates of No Return. Captain
Stanley had ordered his men to dig up the courtyard flagstones and
make a vault for the Governor’s lady—found dead that morning on the
floor of her chamber, an empty bottle of prussic acid clutched in
her rigid hand.
The soldiers worked all afternoon while the tropical
rains poured down.
It was after midnight that they lowered the coffin,
wood scraping brick. The fort’s chaplain read a few prayers—his
words caught and tossed away by the salty Cape wind that sent the
torches flickering. There were none to weep for her; her kith and
kin far across the sea, the Governor himself too drunk to stagger
down from the castle tower. Dark eyes watched from the shadows, and
the whispers had already begun.
Was it an accident? Had she taken the stuff by
mistake—one bottle might look very like another to a woman
stricken. She was often ill with mysterious pains and
complaints.
Her unhappiness was no secret. Lonely little London
bird flown so far from friends and home. Had death come at her own
hand?
Or the hand of another?
The soldiers bricked up the vault. The flagstones
were laid in place once more.
The soldiers returned to their barrack. The slaves
and servants crept to their beds. The light in the tower went out.
The rain poured down and washed the mud away, trickling through the
stones, drip, drip, dripping on the sepulcher below. And Laetitia
Elizabeth Landon—once known to the London literati as the poetess
L.E.L.—slept in her chamber of stone, lulled by the hollow echo of
the restless, beating sea.
Chapter One
“A
film?” Peter’s voice
echoed hollowly down the transatlantic line. “You’re
going…Hollywood?”
“I…um…believe it’s straight-to-cable,” I said.
Silence. Then, “And this is a documentary?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“Roberta Lom, the producer—” I winced, hearing my own
slightly self-conscious tone as I spoke the word
producer
“was a little vague. It was a short conversation. She was late for
a meeting.”
Another of those awkward silences. I glanced at the
clock on the bedstand; ten o’clock p.m. Peter’s time. I had been so
looking forward to talking to him; I always seemed to call at the
wrong hour: either he wasn’t home or he wasn’t able to talk. But
now, after three and a half weeks of phone tag, I finally had him
on the line—and it was almost as though I were talking to a
stranger. He seemed so…far away.
Of course, he
was
far away—over five thousand
miles of far away. Peter was in the tiny village of Innisdale in
the English Lake District while I was in Los Angeles, so maybe I
was letting my imagination make too much of a bad connection. Bad
in more ways than one.
He said flatly, “I don’t see why anyone would want to
make a documentary of your book. Who, other than academics like
yourself, would care whether or not Lord Byron fathered yet another
bastard child?”
Now, I found that a tad irritating, but I’m the first
to admit that when it comes to my passion—my passion for literature
of the Romantic period—I’m not entirely objective. So, striving for
sweet reason, I said, “Well, first of all, how we determined that
little fact makes a pretty good story, I think. I mean, I was
kidnapped—three times—”
My gaze wandered past the assorted silver-and
pewter-framed photos of my parents, me, and my brothers, Clark and
Colin. Clark, four years older, had the blond hair and wide green
eyes—behind the same horn-rimmed glasses—of our father. Colin had
Mother’s freckles and red hair. As the middle child it had fallen
upon me to somehow manage a diplomatic combination of genetic
traits: green eyes and auburn hair—and if there’s one thing I’m
good at, it’s diplomatic relations.
“You can hardly count Allegra taking you to Lady
Vee’s as actual abduction.”
Perhaps he was not defending yet another former
girlfriend so much as being a stickler for accuracy. Still striving
for sweet reason, but now through gritted teeth, I said, “I was
held against my will. Never mind the fact that we were
both
nearly shot by that crazed—”
“A bit sensationalistic for a reputable documentary,”
Peter drawled in that annoying public-school accent, and if I
didn’t know better, I’d have sworn he was deliberately provoking
me.
“I assume the documentary will focus on the academic
aspects of our search.”
Peter laughed. And now I was quite sure that he
was
trying to provoke me. “What academic aspects might those
be?” he inquired as though genuinely interested. “As I recall, you
were convinced we were searching for a lost manuscript.”
Now that was one for the books—no pun intended. For
once I, Grace Hollister, was at a loss for words. In fact, there
was the oddest prickling behind my eyes—as though I were about to
suffer a dreadful allergy attack. What was happening here? We were
very nearly quarreling.
This, after exchanging no more than a dozen words or
so since I’d left the Lakes for a brief visit home. Or what would
have been a brief visit if it hadn’t been for my parents’ fortieth
wedding anniversary, the holidays, the difficulty in arranging the
subletting of my apartment, catching up with old friends and
colleagues, and now this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see my
first book made into a film.
I couldn’t understand it. Did Peter regret the
things—those lovely, romantic things—he had said before I left,
nearly three…four…
six
months...earlier? Did he not want me
to return to Innisdale?
Into my silence he said, “If this is a documentary,
wouldn’t I need to sign a release of some sort? You’re planning to
use my name, I take it?”
“Are you saying you would refuse to sign a
release?”
The hiss in the long-distance line seemed
ominous.
“No,” he said quietly, at last. “I’m not going to
stop you, if this is what you want.”
Were we still talking about the proposed documentary
film? There was something in his voice.…
I said uncertainly, “Is everything all right there?
Was there—you said you had something to tell me.” I’d been so
thrilled that he had called me, so excited about my news; I’d
hardly given him a chance to get a word in until at last his
pointed lack of interest had penetrated the bubble of my
enthusiasm.
“It’ll keep,” he said.
Abruptly, I remembered the beautiful and dangerous
Catriona—and the much less beautiful but equally dangerous Turkish
prison guard Hayri Kayaci. I remembered three murder investigations
and far too many close calls to count. Peter’s past was checkered
at best, and the publication of my first book alone had brought
results similar to poking a stick into a nest of cobras. Was it
possible that he had valid reasons for not wanting this film
made?
“Peter,” I began.
“Look, Grace,” he said at the same time. “Something’s
come up. I’ll ring you later, shall I?”
“All right,” I said reluctantly, but I was speaking
to a dial tone.
Slowly, I replaced the handset, fearing that more
than a phone connection had been broken.
*****
“That didn’t take long,” my mother said when I
entered the kitchen a few minutes after ending my phone call to
Peter. She was chopping asparagus stalks for yet another of her
highly nutritious casseroles. Mother is one of those women who does
everything brilliantly; everything except cook. I had a sudden
longing for one of Peter’s butter-drenched, cream-soaked,
cognac-laced specialties.
It was hard not to love a man who could cook as well
as Peter, even taking into consideration all his unsavory
acquaintances and the number of close calls I had experienced since
becoming involved with him. Assuming “involved” was the right
word.
“Something came up. He had to ring off,” I said.
“Was he pleased about the documentary?”
“No.” I met my mother’s hazel gaze and shrugged.
“He’s a…very private person.”
“Is he?” Mother added the asparagus and baby carrots
to the small new potatoes already steaming on the stovetop. Nature
camouflaged my mother’s razor-sharp brain beneath feathery red hair
and a playful smattering of freckles on a pert nose. But there’s
nothing feathery or pert about my mom—especially when she’s
grilling one of her susp—offspring. She studied me levelly for a
moment, clearly choosing her words, and I felt one of those qualms
that adulthood and autonomy had done nothing to shield me from.