“Case?”
“The murder of the old woman on the beach. She took good care of your son’s grave. She needn’t have died for her care.”
“Arthur died because he cared too much.” Mrs Murray clenched her hands. “If he had only said no. If he had just stayed where he was. But he just had to help out a friend who had asked him to come to the island. He wrote to me that it was full of lemon orchards and that he would send me a picture of them.
“Did he send that?” Mrs Murray shook her head. “Instead, he sent a picture of himself leading a donkey with a little girl on top. He had met her parents and was now teaching the little girl how to ride. I guess he missed his own children.”
“Children?” Mrs Valentine widened her eyes. “Your son had children?”
“Yes, he was married to a French woman. We never met her. It…” Mrs Murray sighed. “The marriage wasn’t our choice. My husband put pressure on me so we didn’t attend the wedding. We didn’t even send a letter with our well wishes.”
Her mouth pulled tight. “I did want to keep in touch with Arthur, though, so eventually I started writing to him. It was the summer in which he died. I gave him the address of a friend to reach me so his father wouldn’t find out about the contact. He wrote to me that he wasn’t at home right then and that his wife had forwarded the letter, but that he would send me pictures of her and the children later.”
“I see. And after your son died and you found out about this… about his death I mean, did you contact the wife?’
“Yes. I wrote to the address in Paris. But the letter was returned to me as “unknown at this address”. I have no idea what happened to her or the children.’
“So…” Mrs Valentine tapped the table edge. “Arthur Reynolds left a wife and children when he died. If they knew he was accused and driven to death, they might want revenge.” Mrs Murray stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”
Mrs Valentine now handed her the letter. “Did you send this?” Mrs Murray took it and unfolded it. She gasped when she saw her son’s name. “No. I would never do something like that. But you think someone who loved him might have?”
“Yes. His wife is twenty-five years older now. His children are grown up. We don’t know where they are. If they came to the island to—”
“Avenge themselves on Mrs Ramsforth? Isn’t that a bit far-fetched?” Mrs Murray lifted both her hands in a dismissive gesture. “She was a child at the time, not to blame.”
“No,” Mrs Valentine said. “But your son’s children were also children at the time who were also not to blame. But suddenly their quiet little life was disturbed. Their father dead, their mother forced to move away as she could no longer afford the house in Paris. I assume your son provided for her?’
“Yes. She was a widow when he met her. That’s why we didn’t approve of his relationship with her. Taking on a woman with a son.”
“So she already had a child when your son married her?’
“Yes. He was just a toddler at the time of their marriage.”
“Do you recall his name?” Mrs Murray shook her head. “It was something with an M, I think. But I have no head for French names.” She looked at the letter in her hand. “Was this sent to Mrs Ramsforth?”
“No. To the police. The current chief of police here handled the case at the time of Mrs Ramsforth’s mother’s death.”
“But what on earth was it sent for?’
That’s a good question, Mrs Valentine thought. A very good question indeed.
Chapter Seventeen
Jasper lifted his head and listened to the sound of thudding. It seemed to come from the suite where the Ramsforths had stayed and which was now Mr Ramsforth’s bedroom. He got to his feet and went out to see what it was.
The door stood open and, looking inside, Jasper caught a full view of Ramsforth with a painting in his hands, which he bashed on the poster of the bed to break it. It was already torn in the middle.
Jasper rushed up and shouted, “That is the hotel’s property! Put it down.”
Ramsforth looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “The bastard. To put this on the wall for me to look at. The hotel didn’t commission this. He lied!”
Jasper wrenched the painting from the young man’s hands and put it on the floor to pull the torn canvas back together and make out what it depicted. He saw that it was a scene of the harbour, with the ferry arriving. People were disembarking from it and walking towards the fishermen and peddlers on the quay.
A woman dressed in pink with blonde hair floating on the breeze formed the heart of the scene. She seemed to be accepting something from a bent over figure in black.
“That’s Damaris,” Ramsforth said. “He painted her because he’s in love with her. Because they’re having an affair. He hung it in here while I was away, to taunt me. I should break his neck for it.’
“Mr Dupin painted this? The day you arrived?” Jasper looked closer at Damaris in the painting and the figure in black by her side. She had told him that Mr Ramsforth had bought her flowers upon their arrival, the bouquet which had later produced the beetles. Was this the very moment that the bouquet was handed over? Was the figure in black the later murder victim? The alleged killer and the victim side by side, immortalized on canvas?
“Yes, he was in the harbour, at his easel,” Teddy spat. “How convenient. They must have agreed on it beforehand. I can’t believe Damaris would do something like that, but then again I never did know her.’
Jasper lifted the painting. “I’m taking this along, Mr Ramsforth. You should not have damaged it.”
“If you believe the hotel commissioned this and paid for it, you’re mad. Go and ask them. Find out. Evidence is what you want—? Well, then go and find evidence. Instead of bothering me.’
Ramsforth drove him to the door and then shut it with a loud bang. He locked it on the inside.
Jasper shook his head and carried the painting to the reception desk. “Medea, do you know if the hotel commissioned Mr Dupin to make any paintings for it?”
“I don’t think so. But I did see him here a couple of times, so it could be possible. Shall I ask around? And let you know?”
“Please. And could someone take me to Mr Dupin? I want to discuss this particular work of art with him.”
“If you’re going to see him, you could ask him if he was commissioned.’
“I want to know if the hotel asked him. He might not tell me the truth.”
Medea didn’t seem to understand but accepted his insistence with a shrug. She called for a young man to fetch the carriage and drive Inspector Jasper out to Mr Dupin’s place.
* * *
Dupin took a few steps back to judge his latest work. Tilting his head this way and that, he studied it with a frown.
“I like it,” a voice behind his back said, and Dupin turned around to see Jasper smiling at him.
“I’m not quite happy with the perspective. Even after all of these years, it’s the hardest element to get right. I’m confident in my use of colours, I guide the brush without a second thought to create boats, houses, trees, people. But sometimes when I see the whole, something is off, and I can’t make out what it is.’
“It sounds a lot like police work,” Jasper said. “Sometimes you’re confident you have all the pieces but they don’t make up a whole that feels right. Whichever way you arrange them, there is something off about the image they create.”
“Then your way of arranging them must be wrong.” Dupin reached for the wine bottle he had put on the low table. “Care for a glass?” He noticed the painting the man had put against a leg of the table. “I see you’ve brought something that needs repairing.” He picked it up and stared, in mute surprise, at the mutilated scene.
Damaris in the middle, almost torn away.
He glanced at Jasper. “How did this happen?’
“Mr Ramsforth did it. He’s certain you’re having an affair with his wife and put this painting in the suite to taunt him.”
“Nonsense. I meant it to be a gift to them. To them both. They looked so happy when they got off the ferry.’
“Still, I only clearly recognise her.”
“Ah, Inspector. I like to dwell on beautiful details. And she was very beautiful.’
“Was? You make it sound like she no longer is.”
Dupin gestured with his hands. “She is accused of a terrible crime. I can see why her husband would want to destroy this perfect picture of her. It wasn’t true. And then you have no other choice.’
“So you actually understand why he ruined your artwork?”
“Disappointment is understandable.” Dupin poured the wine and held out a glass to Jasper.
Jasper accepted it and raised it. “That you may find the right perspective.’
“And that you may find yours.” Dupin took a long draught and savoured the roll of the fruity flavours across his tongue. No matter how often he came to Kalos, he had never learned to like ouzo or raki. Wine was so much more interesting, as it seemed to change in the mouth. “How is Mrs Ramsforth?”
“You really had no affair with her?” Jasper held his gaze. “I’m not here to accuse you of infidelity. Just to see how everyone fits.”
“Into the frame?” Dupin asked. He laughed softly. “I have to admit, Inspector, that the idea of a young woman like that loving me is gratifying. But I’m honest enough to declare I am too old for her. She’d know it and I’d know it. No, I just saw her alight from the ferry and I loved the image she represented. Pure innocence, youth, happiness. I captured that and I wanted her to have it to keep it and cherish it especially in times when she wouldn’t be happy. I hadn’t expected those times to come so soon.”
He refilled the glass. “Usually it’s after years and years, of a dreary repetitive life, in which one loses sight of what one once loved about the other.”
“Have you been married?”
Dupin shook his head. “Women adore an artistic glow but they can’t deal with the life. I have no set address, I never know if I will have money. I live by the day and women like to plan everything and have money in the bank for an old age pension. They would go crazy with me, I would go bored with them. To protect both parties I made the vow a long time ago to stay on my own.’
“I see.” Jasper drank his wine and looked around him. “This house is rented, I assume, as you are only here for the summers?”
“Actually, it’s mine. It was but a shack when I bought it. I changed it over the years. Adding a bit here and there. It’s quite nice now.”
“Yes, quite.”
Jasper ambled about, looking at the various paintings, in the forced interested way that told Dupin he didn’t care for them at all but was just using the opportunity to get to another question. It was so obvious. Typical of a former Scotland Yard genius to think he’s playing a subtle game, tricking his victims into telling just a bit more than they want to.
Dupin planted his feet apart. “I think you can’t help me with my perspective, Inspector, as it needs an artist’s eye. But perhaps I can help you with yours. I assume you’re looking for a way to discover who killed the old woman on the beach?”
“That would be helpful,” Jasper admitted.
Dupin smiled. “There’s no great mystery to it. I saw that old woman but one day before the Ramsforths arrived. She was arguing with a girl. The girl who works at the hotel. As I passed them, I heard the girl say, “It can cost me my job.” The old woman grabbed her arm and squeezed viciously, like old biddies can. I remember my grandmother squeezing me like that when she wanted to impress something firmly on my mind. She said, “Your job doesn’t matter as much as this does. Your life depends on it.”’
Jasper stood looking at him from across the room. “Meaning the old woman threatened her?”
“Persuaded her to participate in something? I don’t know. I do know that the girl wasn’t happy with it. She may have killed the old woman when she had the chance and blamed it on Mrs Ramsforth.”
Jasper stared at the floor in deep thought.
“More wine?” Dupin asked, holding up the bottle. The sun reflected off the glass and turned the contents deep red, like blood.
Jasper didn’t seem to hear him.
“More wine?” Dupin repeated.
Jasper looked up at him as if he awoke from a deep sleep. He pulled back his shoulders and put the wine glass aside. “No, thank you. I have other things to do.’
He passed Dupin on his way out, then suddenly stopped at the painting Dupin had been eyeing and said, “The mast of that one boat is too long. If you shorten it, your perspective will be perfect.”
Dupin stared at the painting. “Well, have I ever…?”
He covered the top part of the mast with his finger. “That might just work. It might just work!’
* * *
Jasper looked up the steep ladder leading into the loft of the barn. “You are certain he slept there?”
The old man by his side just pointed up.
Jasper sighed as he took hold of the rickety ladder. He wasn’t sure it would carry his weight. The thief had been much smaller and lighter. But he had to go up there if he wanted to search where the dead man had spent his nights.
The wood creaked ominously under his every step so he didn’t linger on any one but hurried as much as he dared, shifting his weight from one step to another. At last he could haul himself up into the dusty hay. Cobwebs hung like strands of hair from the rafters and tickled his face as he crawled across the loft, feeling in and around the hay. He found an old blanket folded away in a corner, probably not needed in the summer, and a tin cup and plate with a rusty fork. Empty cans that had been carefully washed clean and filled with earth stood in a row like potted plants in a windowsill. Had he been growing something here? But there was no green visible above the earth. Perhaps they had needed to be watered and when the owner hadn’t returned, had died before appearing above the ground?
Jasper searched the hay, sneezing as dust caught his nose. His eyes began to water and his breathing to wheeze. After a while he sat down and shook his head at this rather futile exercise. What had he expected to find here? Something incriminating the Reynolds? Proving they had been after Mrs Ramsforth? Some other clue, a sudden ray of light into an otherwise dark problem?
He did know a lot more than he had when he had been asked to look into the crime. But like Dupin with his perspective, there was something not quite right. Missing pieces? Or just not knowing how to align what he had?
He crawled back to the ladder. Too bad that the thief hadn’t kept a secret stash here. You’d expect the man to need some kind of hiding place for things, apart from his person. A safe place, where no one would think to look.
Jasper was just about to put his foot on the ladder when he froze. He looked back over his shoulder at the cans with earth. A thief who lived in a barn owning practically nothing and who was out all day and only slept here, growing plants? That made no sense at all.
He moved back over to them quickly and started to dig through the earth with his fingers. He found coins, rings, brooches. And then his fingers caught on something made of tiny links. He pulled it up carefully, holding his breath. A necklace. With a pocket watch on it. He opened it. The watch wasn’t running. Hadn’t been running for many years it seemed. It was rusty and the glass was cracked. He tried to make out the words that were engraved on the inside of the lid. There were words there. Names, it seemed.
He couldn’t read them in the bad light. He’d have to clean this first and then perhaps even use a magnifying glass.
He held the necklace up and looked it over. He had only seen a glimpse of it when he had seen the dead body, but this could be the necklace which had belonged to Eureka. She had not been carrying a cross with her at all, but an old pocket watch.
Yes. The names on it could be highly significant.
Perhaps even after death the thief could tell him his story?
* * *
Achilles Kyrioudis walked over to Jasper’s table in the hotel’s dining room and slapped a stack of papers on the surface. “You asked for it and I deliver.’
Jasper looked up with a surprised expression. “I asked for something?”
“Yes. You wanted information on the friends of the Ramsforths. Gideon Hawtree and his wife. This is all I could find out about them.’
He took a seat opposite the former inspector. “I trust your conversation with my brother was productive?” He hoped it sounded casual enough, like a passing mention.
Jasper nodded. “He gave me some revealing information.”
Achilles gestured to a waiter. “Coffee.” He didn’t even say please. He was an authority here on Kalos. Had always been.
Jasper said, “You came here to the villa when Mrs Ramsforth’s parents owned it.”
Of course Stephanos had taken care to tell that. “Yes. The American was writing a book and he wanted to get the mythology right.” He gestured with a hand. “I didn’t see his wife often.”
“Often enough to have caused rumours.”
Achilles wasn’t sure if Stephanos had suggested this or Jasper was just guessing to unnerve him. He laughed softly. “There are always rumours when there is a beautiful woman involved.”
“As you came to the villa often, you must have known about Arthur Reynolds and what happened to him when the lady of the house was stabbed to death? Why did you take me to Petros, as if an old man had to tell me the story because nobody else recalled it?”
Achilles picked a bread crumb off the table’s pristine damask. “I had no wish to become involved.”
Honeymoon with Death Page 18
