So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 by Allen Anne R

Author:Allen, Anne R. [Allen, Anne R.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Camilla, rom-com mystery
Publisher: Kotu Beach Press
Published: 2015-07-08T04:00:00+00:00

Part V—There is no Creature Loves Me

Chapter 42—Plantagenet

Plant received no more visits from Piglet and Pooh, who seemed to be finished with him. He lay on his bed in a half-awake state for hours—maybe days—wondering if it really was inevitable that he would be charged with Neville's murder.

How could they hold him in this nasty toilet of a room for 96 hours?

Four days of staring at walls. How could anybody stay sane in here?

He was kicking himself for not saying more to Sanjay about the importance of finding the young man who had been acting the part of King Richard at the Old Hall festivities.

As soon as the police talked to that guy, the whole mix-up would be solved. The actor had seen Neville dead before Plant arrived in the Hall. He even had blood on the sleeve of his costume, probably from trying to rouse the poor man.

Or, of course, he might be the killer.

So why weren't they looking for him?

He shouldn't be hard to locate. These reenactments were staged by various groups with names like "The Guild of the White Boar", and "The Companie of Mercia." He'd seen their names in the brochure. They would know who had been playing what part.

The police ought to be looking for a murder weapon, too. They might even find a nice big knife with some incriminating DNA on it. That's what happened in mystery novels.

Mystery novels. If only he had one. The most hackneyed cozy mystery in the world would be a welcome break from the horrible monotony in here.

Still, he'd like to tell all those authors that mysteries were not actually very cozy when you were in the middle of one. This one was frigid. How could any place be this cold in August?

He had not been able to get warm since he arrived. The concrete of his cell seemed to exude cold, like a refrigeration unit. And the icy blue of the walls made him shiver when he looked at them too long.

And it wasn't as if he had anything else to look at. There was a high window above his bed that let in daylight, but it was covered with some sort of opaque glass that didn't let him see any trees or sky—just a perpetual grayish fog that turned to an oily orange as night fell. Probably from security lights outside.

He wasn't even allowed the dignity of a dark night.

No. He wasn't going to feel sorry for himself. He needed to keep his thoughts positive.

What would Sherlock Holmes do? Or Miss Marple?

They would find the witness, and the murder weapon. And somebody with a motive. If it were Miss Marple, she'd find the culprit because he reminded her of somebody in her own village.

Plant tried the mental exercise of thinking about who in his world might be likely to commit murder. He didn't have much respect for Glen, but he was pretty sure Glen would stop short of murder. Marva/Marvin, maybe. He seemed capable of anything. Especially when he was in costume.

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