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  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

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Where there is mystery, it is generally suspected there must also be evil.

  —Lord Byron

  The 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 subletti
ng 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.

  “Grace, your father and I have made a point of never interfering in our children’s lives, but I can’t say we’re pleased to discover that you’re seriously considering committing yourself to a man with a criminal record.”

  Of course, I had known this chat was coming from the moment I set foot on American soil, and for one cowardly instant I wished I’d revealed a little less of Peter’s background to my concerned parents. But I’m a firm believer in honesty being the best policy—besides, it was a sure bet that the visiting Detective Inspector Brian Drummond, whom I’d been seeing while he was in town, would have been only too happy to fill my family in on the more colorful aspects of Peter’s history.

  With the uncanny mind-reading ability that had terrified me and my brothers in our formative years—not to mention generations of students in her Women’s Studies courses—my mother said, “What time is Brian picking you up?”

  “A quarter to seven. The seminar ends at four-thirty.”

  Brian, an expert in art and antiquities theft, had arrived a few days early to attend an Interpol-sponsored international conference on cultural trafficking. The conference had been postponed several times, but finally his trip coincided with my visit home in a way that seemed fortuitous from his viewpoint and that of my parents.

  Whether in reaction to Peter Fox’s criminal past, or on the basis of his own merits, of which, true enough, he had many, Brian had already received the stamp of approval from my nearest and dearest.

  That last sounds like I was being forced to see Brian against my will, and of course that’s not true. I liked him—a lot. I found him very attractive and very good company.

  “He’s an attractive young man,” Mother said. “Intelligent, presentable, politically conscious.”

  “Yes,” I said noncommittally.

  “He’s certainly very interested in you.”

  “He’s a long way from home,” I said. I could feel my mother’s gaze, but I kept my own glued to the flowered Harker Pottery casserole that had once belonged to my grandmother.

  It was a very pretty dish, though not particularly valuable—something I had learned working at Rogue’s Gallery Antiques with Peter. One of the more useful—and law-abiding—things I had learned. Another thing I had learned was the importance of family and treasured traditions. Which is why I didn’t object when my mother continued, “I can’t pretend that your father and I are pleased with some of the things you’ve told us about this…Peter Fox.”

  Even I had to admit Peter didn’t well, look good on paper. “If you were able to meet him…”

  “Well, that would be up to him, wouldn’t it?” Mother said. “If he’s genuinely interested in building a life with you, I would think he would be willing to make the effort to meet your family.”

  There really was no answer to that; I would hardly strengthen my position by admitting that I couldn’t picture Peter in this country or this house. Let alone this kitchen.

  “How many criminal investigations has he dragged you into?” Mother continued.

  “He hasn’t dragged me into anything,” I countered. “In fact, from the minute I met him he tried to discourage me from getting involved in these...these adventures. But if I hadn’t gotten involved there would have been no book and no documentary, so it isn’t all a bad thing.”

  My mother looked unconvinced.

  And the truth was, I wasn’t entirely convinced either. It had been roughly two and a half years ago that I visited the Lake District researching the Romantic poets for my doctoral thesis, and became involved in a bit of literary skull-duggery. With that involvement had come involvement of another kind: a romantic liaison with Peter Fox, antiques dealer and former jewel thief. Peter claimed to have turned over a new leaf, but not everyone in his murky past seemed to have got the message. Which wasn’t likely to endear him to my friends and family—and even I had to admit that the fact that Peter’s kisses turned my bones to water and my brain to mush wasn’t exactly an endorsement for sane and healthy living.

  “I understand the power of sexual chemistry,” my mother said in that voice as cool and clear as astringent, “but I speak from experience when I tell you that nothing is more important to a successful marriage than respect and shared interests.”

  I had a sudden, vivid childhood memory of lying in bed listening to the quiet murmur of my parents’ voices—and the surprising sound of my mother giggling. “I know you and Dad have been very happy, and of course I want that for myself. I do respect Peter and we do share many interests.”

  “Amateur sleuthing?” my mother inquired tartly.

  “More than that, Mother.”

  She had the grace to look down at the vegetable swamp.

  “Are you able to share your work
with him?”

  “Yes. That is, he…listens.”

  My mother fixed me with her all-seeing gaze. “But does he share your passion?”

  “For poetry? He understands it.” As much as anyone who wasn’t a fellow academic could understand my obsession for the written word.

  “You know what Joubert said. ‘Only choose in marriage a man whom you would choose as a friend if he were a woman.’”

  The picture that conjured held me silent for the second time that afternoon.

  ******

  “You look smashing!” Brian said a few hours later when I opened the front door to my parents’ home.

  Brian looked rather smashing, too, in his dark suit; I wasn’t used to seeing him so formally attired. He generally wore jeans and a blazer on duty. Pristine jeans, mind—I even suspected him of pressing them—and beautifully cut tweed blazers.

  “Thank you, sir.” I accepted the peck on my cheek automatically.

  Surreptitiously, I studied him. It’s always interesting seeing that reflection of yourself in the people that your nearest and dearest want to set you up with. Brian was about my age, medium height and trim as a Marine. His hair was dark and his eyes were that shade of blue that looks mostly gray. In some ways he reminded me of Chaz, my other longtime, family-approved significant other. Brian was a bit edgier, and a lot more stubborn—er, forceful—than Chaz, but they shared similar values and world view. I suppose I shared those, although I’d hitched my star to a former criminal and ladiesman.

  “New dress?” Brian inquired. He was very good about noticing that kind of thing.

  I shook my head. “It’s been in storage with the rest of my things.”

  “It suits you. Very feminine. The green brings out your eyes.”

  Yes, it was difficult; Brian made no bones abut the fact that he was interested, that for him it was not just friendship. He never overstepped the boundaries, but he didn’t pretend either. He wasn’t a man for playing games. That was one of the things I liked about him. But then, I liked many things about him.