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  Zena looked as if she could think why someone might want to kill Polly, but Cerys spoke first. “So they both fell? Nasty accidents, then, if you ask me. Least it’s over now. I’ll be glad to get back to Wales, mind. I’ve had enough of this now.”

  “I wonder if we should cancel the conference. For decency’s sake, we should. But we’ll never be able to get hold of tonight’s dinner guests in time. Half of them will be on their way here in a cab by now. Not together. Separate cabs. Oh! I’m squiffy. No more wine for me. If you see me drink another drop, shoot me.”

  “Ah.” Dr. Muriel looked around at the group. “An interesting conundrum. If Morgana asks to be shot, is it OK to shoot her?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Emily, alarmed.

  “At least we know your wretched One Star Club has nothing to do with it.” Morgana signaled to the barman for another bottle of wine.

  Zena’s imagination was still flying free. “Jumping from a roof for no reason is exactly what members of secret societies do.”

  “I don’t think Muriel was suggesting it was that kind of secret society. More like a malign version of a shopping reward club or a professional association.” Morgana dug in her purse and scattered several credit-card-size pieces of plastic on the table in front of her, testifying to her non-malign membership of the Society of Authors, the Writers’ Guild of Great Britain, the Romance Writers of Great Britain, Sainsbury’s Nectar Rewards, Tesco’s Clubcard and the Automobile Association Breakdown service. “I mean none of these, you see, require anyone to jump off the roof after sign-up.” She hiccuped.

  “I think you should cancel,” said Archie.

  Morgana stared at him, aghast, before realizing he wasn’t talking about canceling all her cards, he was talking about the conference. She was still slightly aghast, but much less confused. “You may be right. Poor Des Kraster. Poor Winnie. Poor Teena. I’m not sure what to do.”

  “I agree it’s bordering on disrespect, M, but it’s even more disrespectful to invite people here tonight, and then when they turn up, you send them away hungry again. I’m not saying that if we throw food at the problem, it’ll go away—Lord knows I’ve tried it myself often enough over the years.” Cerys patted her thighs. “I’m testament to the fact it doesn’t work. But we can all get together and commemorate, see?”

  Morgana had gathered up her cards and was having difficulty trying to fit them back in her wallet. She closed one eye, which seemed to make things a bit easier. “What would the Romance Writers of the UK do? Or the LGBT Romance Writers? I don’t want our members making the comparison and finding us callous.”

  “Their events are far too popular to be able to cancel at short notice, love—too many people coming in from all over the country.”

  “All over the world,” said Zena. “Didn’t the RWUK have Nelson Mandela for their centenary?”

  “Last summer party the LGBT lot had was onboard a ship by Tower Bridge. Dame Judi Dench, boombangaboom cocktails, goodie bags from Asprey’s, fireworks. No expense spared.”

  “Cerys!” Morgana was flushed, though it might have been the wine. “You didn’t go?”

  “Had to. Invited by a school friend. Would have seemed rude not to. Mind, it’s windy up on deck. Had my picture taken perched on a cannon between Daniel Craig and Sir Ian McKellen. That was a three cans of hairspray event, and no mistake.” Cerys patted her helmet of hair at the back and trembled slightly at the memory, though whether it was at the horror of her hairdo being blown out of place, or the thrill of being wedged between those two actors, she didn’t say.

  “Ach, who cares about them? We could join their organizations if we wanted to, but we don’t want to. It’s what’s happened here, to us, to our people, that’s disturbing. We can’t just serve canapés and drink white wine,” (Archie himself wasn’t drinking it) “and pretend it never occurred.”

  Dr. Muriel tapped her cane on the ground, very gently, to get everyone’s attention. “I could tackle the subject tomorrow, as part of my ethics in literature talk. That way, everyone gets to air their opinions, without anyone feeling the decision has been taken lightly, with no respect for the dead. You’ll have a chance to explain why you haven’t canceled.”

  “Muriel, you are so considerate. Will we start with your session, then? I’d planned to begin with Zena’s talk on racial characterizations in literature.”

  “Sounds interesting, Zena.”

  “Yeah, I’m pleading the case for a more varied description of black skin on the page. Gotta be possible to go beyond using confectionery as a comparison. ‘Chocolate this’ and ‘caramel that.’ Yeah, OK! I’m with you! But that’s not all there is.”

  “It’s a marvelous topic,” Morgana agreed. “Do you mind if we move it after the break?”

  “I don’t mind, babes. If we’re not talking confectionery, Muriel, then it’s wood: ebony, mahogany, teak—”

  “I’ll put you on at eleven, then. And, Muriel, yours’ll be on first thing. I must make a fuss of poor Maggie, tomorrow. We’ve invited her all the way here, and she’ll have expected to be feted, and we’ve ignored her. She’s such a sweet, quiet little thing with that slightly down-beaten look, as though life’s been nibbling away at her, the way she nibbles away at those fingernails. Where is she? Any idea, Emily?”

  “I’m not sure. Everyone scattered when they realized Teena had died.”

  “Perhaps we ought not to lose sight of her.”

  “Well,” Emily admitted, “I don’t think she’d be stupid enough to go up to the roof terrace, but they do say bad news comes in threes.”

  “Oh, I doubt she’s in danger. I just mean, given all that’s happened, I hope she’s not blogging it.”

  Polly twisted in her seat and looked around the bar. “I thought I saw her in here just now…There she is! In the corner, look—with Winnie’s husband.”

  Morgana stood and waved for them to join her. After a brief whispered conversation, Maggie picked up her handbag and walked over. Des nodded politely to the committee, and left the bar.

  Morgana fetched a chair for Maggie and fussed over her, pouring her a glass of wine.

  Maggie said, “Des couldn’t face company just now. Nothing personal. He doesn’t blame you.”

  “Of course not. I’m not surprised. I think if I’d have been in his situation, I’d have skedaddled. And what must you be feeling? These aren’t the best circumstances to make your debut among the Romance Writers of Great Britain.”

  Maggie gripped her handbag. “I suppose it means I’m the winner now, with the other two gone?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE GALA DINNER

  It was time for the gala dinner, though nobody much felt like celebrating. Even the vigil had fizzled out. Emily had a quick wash and brush-up and then looked into the Brunswick room. Des was in there, a chair pulled up to the table with the wilting, plastic-wrapped flowers and the stuffed toy cats underneath. He was staring at the scrolling tributes on the computer screen in front of him, and he was alone except for the couple in the blue anoraks. They sat side by side, staring straight ahead of them at nothing at all, taking it in turns to dip their hands into a family pack of prawn cocktail crisps, with the synchronicity honed in a long marriage.

  No one had proposed holding a vigil for Teena. First, she lacked the intrinsic glamour that was Winnie’s birthright as an American who had lived in the blessed land of movies, New York, and Disney World. Second, it appeared that Teena had died while sticking her nose in where it frankly didn’t belong, and nobody ever held a vigil for something like that. Third, even the most rabid proponents of public grief can get compassion fatigue. Teena’s death was where this lot drew the line. Her death seemed to have deflated them, suggesting as it did that people just keep on dying no matter what anyone tries to do about it. Fourth, it had all seemed a bit too real and ugly: many of them had been at the press conference and seen Teena’s dead body through the window of the T. S. Eliot room. Many now felt they had d
one their bit and hadn’t returned to the Captain Thomas Coram room. Of those who did return, many had got hungry and drifted back home to have dinner and watch TV. Frazer the bookseller had packed up and gone. Only the anorak couple were still here, dining on crisps.

  Emily went over to Des. “How are you doing, Des? Do you want to come and join us? We’re going to have dinner. Morgana was going to say a few words about your wife.”

  He shook his head. “The police say they’re keeping an open mind. Is that Britspeak for ‘we know what happened but we’re not going to tell you’? It wasn’t suicide. She didn’t leave a note. Anyways, why jump? She was happy.”

  “Did they say anything about Teena?”

  Des shook his head again. “Keeping an open mind.”

  “Did they know each other? I mean, online?”

  Des shrugged. “Winnie had a lot of friends all over the world. Books meant a lot to her. That’s why they asked her to come here, isn’t it? I mean, sure, there was a contest. But there’s always something at the back of it. It’s the same if you win a vacation or anything, isn’t it? Publicity. Cheap advertising. I don’t mind. That’s how the world works. Made my girl happy. You know?”

  Emily suddenly remembered something. “Did she have a pronounced Southern accent?”

  “No. We grew up around the same place. She talked the same as me.”

  “She hadn’t been here before, had she? She must have been looking forward to coming here.”

  “Was she ever!”

  Emily knew that was one of those American phrases that meant the opposite of what it ought to mean. “No-brainer” ought to mean stupid, but it didn’t. “Lucked out” ought to mean out of luck, but it didn’t. “Was she ever” ought to mean no, or at least express doubt of some kind, but it didn’t. Fortunately, Emily watched her share of TV, so she knew Des was expressing enthusiastic agreement. If he had offered her a “re-up” on “the corners” she would have politely declined, though she’d have known what he meant by that as well, having watched all five seasons of The Wire on DVD.

  “A tragedy like this reminds you people have good hearts. We only had the money for one airfare. That’s why Win made the trip alone. The folks where we live, they got up a collection online to pay for my ticket to come here, and to pay for the service and the…the burial.”

  “That’s nice. Americans always seem so community minded.”

  “There’s people from all over the world who’ve contributed. Your organization, too. They donated a thousand bucks. That was a decent thing to do. I don’t hold the romance writers responsible.”

  There was nothing she could say to Des by way of consolation for the loss of his wife. Instead, Emily stood companionably by his side, watching the tribute sites scroll by.

  “Teena set these screens up. Pretty much the last thing she did before she died.”

  “Gee. That was nice of her. So it’s a tribute to her as well. Kinda.”

  Page after page of book blogs scrolled by, crammed full of news and reviews. How did these people ever find time to read all those books, let alone write them up in such detail?

  And then she saw one site that jarred, because it was out of keeping with all the rest. She bent to look. It was a little local news blog, full of parochial notices about village fetes, cricket matches, and plans to protest against a wind farm that would jeopardize a bird sanctuary. An anomaly! She got out her notebook and made a note.

  “I’ll be gone in the morning, early,” Des said. “I’ve got to see about repatriating the body.” He handed Emily a business card, misunderstanding the purpose of her note taking. “But if you want to ask me anything about Win, for a website or anything, you can send me an email. I’ll be glad to talk. It’s a way of remembering.” Emily smiled a choked-up smile at Des and left him to his grief.

  Emily was on her way down to the basement conference area to help Morgana set out the place cards for dinner when she bumped into Det. James.

  “Rory, I wanted to talk to you!”

  “Hey, Emily. Remembered something that might help the investigation?”

  “No, I wanted to ask you something.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “You think the same person’s responsible for Winnie’s and Teena’s deaths?”

  “We’re keeping an open mind.”

  “You don’t think it’s suicide, though? That doesn’t make sense. That would be weird, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, that’s not how we’d present the facts to the coroner. But you’re right. We’re going through some…some documents we found on Teena. They give an indication of her state of mind.”

  “Documents? You mean like a note?”

  “A notebook.”

  Emily blushed. “You shouldn’t take too much notice of what people write in their notebooks.”

  “We have to take notice of everything. That’s how an investigation works. Slow, methodical…Emily, have you ever heard of the One Star Club?”

  “Does it exist, then?”

  “That a yes or a no? Sounds like yes to me.”

  “It’s a…well it’s a long story. I don’t think it’s relevant.”

  “Oh, don’t you? I’m already in trouble with my boss for cutting corners.”

  “The poison?”

  “I can’t tell you, Emily.”

  “Oh, please tell me. Please! I was right about the cyanide? At least admit it was possible.”

  “You want me to say it’s possible you were right about a possible plan by one person to poison another?” He grinned. He was a naturally cheery person, despite the job he did.

  “Yes!”

  “Well it is possible. But I can’t say it.”

  Emily grinned, too. First because maybe she was right about the cyanide, and she liked to be right as much as the next person. Second because all those possibles tumbling around where they didn’t really belong made Emily think of wild, furry creatures—possums?—and reminded her of the unexpected sight she’d had recently of four fox cubs chasing each other in a playfight in her back garden. Third because he might have died from eating that chocolate, and he hadn’t.

  Emily and Morgana put out the place cards in the Montagu room according to the seating plan Morgana had made for dinner, except that they moved everybody on the right-hand side and everybody on the left-hand side up one place to close the gaps where Maggie and Teena should have been sitting. As they worked, Maria walked in between them, removing the specially-printed menu cards that had been placed on the tables, which were set up in a horseshoe shape, like a wedding breakfast, with Morgana to be placed at its head.

  Emily and Morgana chatted about the menu—they were getting hungry—and, although they smiled and looked over at her when they spoke, to include her, Maria worked silently, even grimly, without looking up.

  Emily picked up one of the menu cards Maria hadn’t yet removed. “The goat cheese and roasted artichoke tart with beetroot chutney sounds nice,” she said.

  “Mmmm. You know you can get tubs of roasted artichoke hearts in Sainsbury’s now? When I’ve had one of those days where I feel like absolute hell, sometimes I’ll nip out and buy a tub, and then I’ll sit in the kitchen and gorge myself on those delicious hearts. Oh! I sound like a novice satanic ritualist who has got mixed up about the specifics of the rites.” Morgana giggled.

  “Artichoke hearts are supposed to be good for your liver.” Emily had a feeling Morgana might need to go on a detox tomorrow.

  “I’ve tried to choose menu options that are light but filling. We don’t want everyone getting too pissed. We’ve got health-conscious mains for those who care about such things. I hope they’ll still be enough of a treat for those who don’t. And, of course, I always want meat from an animal that has had a good life. Don’t you?”

  “I’m vegetarian.”

  “Oh, how tiresome for you.” Morgana’s sympathy was genuine. “Polly’s the same. Kicked up a terrible fuss over a goose we tried to serve once for a RWGB
Christmas dinner. Said why not go ahead and roast an angel and serve it up with sprouts and gravy if we wanted to be festive.”

  Emily laughed. She could imagine Polly saying it.

  “All the food has been sourced from farms where the animals are allowed to wander at will, before being shot or strangled whatever it is that they do. Nik has been extremely helpful with the arrangements for dinner, fortunately.”

  Morgana had begun speaking self-consciously, which suggested to Emily that the subject of her conversation might be lurking near at hand. And there he was, hands wringing together in a way that indicated he was about to spill more bad news.

  “The kitchens—”

  “We’re fortunate to be in such good hands, Nik. I saw a very nice review for the hotel restaurant in Time Out about two weeks ago.”

  “The kitchens have been shut for tonight. The police need to search the area after the, um, the unfortunate accident. They’re questioning all the staff.”

  “I hope no one blames you. If someone’s determined to climb over a fence on a roof, knowing it’s dangerous, you can’t be held accountable.”

  “I’ve got Health and Safety on my back, checking the fences upstairs, checking whether I, personally, might be criminally culpable—it carries a jail term. I’m afraid we can’t allow your party to, uh, party on the roof.”

  “Oh, you poor thing! Never mind about us. Everything’s gone wrong so far—nothing else bad can happen. That’s the way we’ve got to deal with it. We shall look back on this at future conferences and no one will ever complain about anything again because everything will seem rosy in comparison.”

  “I admire your, uh…But I don’t think you quite follow me. We can’t serve a hot meal tonight. Our chef’s preparing you a…well, it’s a variation on our very popular Executive Brown-Bag Lunch. Of course, you’re quite welcome to look elsewhere. I can have the concierge try and make reservations.”

  Even Morgana struggled to make the best of this news. But she did it. Eventually. “I don’t think we can shift location. Where would forty of us even get in at this time on a Saturday night at this late notice?”