Magpie Murders

by Anthony Horowitz

  Or what of Dr Redwing herself? The last time she had spoken of Sir Magnus, she had been unable to disguise her hatred not just of him but of all he stood for. She, more than anyone, had known the hurt that he had caused her husband and Pünd knew, from past experience, that there is no more powerful person in an English village than the doctor and, in certain circumstances, the doctor will also be the most dangerous.

  He had walked some of the way down the High Street and he could see Dingle Dell stretching out on his left. He could have taken the short cut through to Pye Hall but he decided not to. He had no wish to meet with Lady Pye or her new partner. They, of all people, had had the most to gain from the death of Sir Magnus. It was the oldest story in the world: the wife, the lover, the cruel husband, the sudden death. Well, they might think they were free to be together but Pünd was quite certain that it would never work out. There are some relationships that succeed only because they are impossible, that actually need unhappiness to continue. It would not take Frances Pye long to tire of Jack Dartford, as handsome as he undoubtedly was. To all intents and purposes, she now owned Pye Hall. Or was it that Pye Hall owned her? Matthew Blakiston had said it was cursed and Pünd could not disagree. He made a conscious decision and turned back. He did not want to see the place again.

  He would have liked to have spoken to Brent one more time. It was odd that the role of the groundsman in everything that had happened had never been fully explained. Inspector Chubb had dismissed him almost entirely from the investigation. And yet Brent had been the first to discover Mary Blakiston’s body after she had fallen as well as the last to see Sir Magnus before he was decapitated. For that matter, it was Brent who claimed to have discovered the body of Mary Blakiston and it was certainly he who had telephoned Dr Redwing. Why had Sir Magnus so arbitrarily dismissed him just before his own death? Pünd feared that the answer to that question might never be known. He had very little time left to him, in every sense. This morning he would set out his thoughts on what had occurred in Saxby-on-Avon. By the afternoon he would be gone.

  And what of Dingle Dell? The stretch of woodland between the vicarage and Pye Hall seemed to have played a large part in the narrative but Pünd had never considered it, in itself, a motive for murder if only because the death of Sir Magnus would not necessarily prevent the development going ahead. Even so, people had behaved very foolishly. They had allowed their emotions to run away with them. Pünd thought of Diana Weaver, the stolid cleaning lady who had taken it upon herself to write a poison pen letter, using her employer’s typewriter. As things had turned out, he had been unable to ask her about the envelope – but it didn’t matter. He had guessed the answer anyway. He had solved this case, not so much by concrete evidence, as by conjecture. In the end, there could be only one way that it would all make sense.

  He retraced his steps, walking up the High Street. He found himself back in the cemetery of St Botolph’s, passing beneath the large elm tree that grew beside the gate. He glanced up at the branches. They were empty.

  He continued towards the newly dug grave with its temporary, wooden cross and plaque.

  Mary Elizabeth Blakiston

  5 April 1887 – 15 July 1955

  This was where it had all begun. It had been the death of Robert’s mother, and the fact that the two of them had argued publicly just a few days before that, which had driven Joy Sanderling to his office in Clerkenwell. Pünd knew now that everything that had happened in Saxby-on-Avon had stemmed from that death. He imagined the woman, lying beneath him in the cold soil. He had never met her but he felt he knew her. He remembered the entries she had made in her diary, the poisoned view she had taken of the world around her.

  He thought of poison.

  There was a footfall behind him and he turned to see the Reverend Robin Osborne walking towards him, making his way between the graves. He did not have his bicycle with him. It was strange that, on the night of the murder, both he and his wife had been in the vicinity of Pye Hall, the one supposedly looking for the other. The vicar’s bicycle had also been heard passing the Ferryman during the course of the evening and Matthew Blakiston had actually seen it parked outside the Lodge. Pünd was glad to have come across the vicar one last time. There was still a certain matter to be accounted for.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Pünd,’ Osborne said. He glanced down at the grave. Nobody had left any flowers. ‘Have you come here for inspiration?’

  ‘No. Not at all,’ Pünd replied. ‘I am leaving the village today. I was merely passing through on my way back to the hotel.’

  ‘You’re leaving? Does that mean you’ve given up on us?’

  ‘No, Mr Osborne. It means the exact opposite.’

  ‘You know who killed her?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it. I’ve often thought … it must be very hard to rest in peace when your murderer is walking on the ground above you. It offends all the ideas of natural justice. I don’t suppose there’s anything you can tell me – although I probably shouldn’t ask.’

  Pünd made no reply. Instead, he changed the subject. ‘The words that you spoke at the funeral of Mary Blakiston, they were of great interest,’ he said.

  ‘Did you think so? Thank you.’

  ‘You said that she was a great part of the village, that she embraced life here. Would you be surprised to learn that she kept a diary in which she recorded nothing but the darkest and most unkind observations about the people who lived in Saxby-on-Avon?’

  ‘I would be surprised, Mr Pünd. Yes. I mean, she did have a way of insinuating herself, but I never detected any particular malice in anything she did.’

  ‘She made an entry about you and Mrs Osborne. It seems that she visited you on 14 July, exactly one day before she died. Do you have any recollection of that?’

  ‘I can’t say …’ Osborne was a terrible liar. His hands were writhing and his entire face was drawn and unnatural. Of course he saw her, standing in the kitchen. ‘I heard you were having trouble with the wasps.’ And the pictures, lying face up on the kitchen table … Why were they there? Why hadn’t Henrietta put them away?

  ‘She used the word “shocking” in her diary,’ Pünd went on. ‘She said also that it was “dreadful” and asked herself what action she should take. Do you know to what she was referring?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Then I will tell you. It very much puzzled me, Mr Osborne, why your wife should have needed treatment for belladonna poisoning. Dr Redwood had purchased a vial of physostigmine for that very purpose. She had stepped on a clump of deadly nightshade.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But the question I asked myself was – why was your wife not wearing shoes?’

  ‘Yes. You did mention that at the time. And my wife said—’

  ‘Your wife did not tell me the entire truth. She was not wearing shoes because she was not wearing anything else either. This is the reason why you were both so reluctant to tell me where you had been on holiday. In the end, you were forced to give me the name of your hotel – Shelpegh Court in Devonshire – and it was the matter of one simple telephone call to discover that Sheplegh Court is well known as a resort for naturists. That is the truth of the matter, is it not, Mr Osborne? You and your wife are followers of naturism.’

  Osborne swallowed hard. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Mary Blakiston found evidence of this?’

  ‘She found photographs.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what she intended to do?’

  ‘No. She said nothing. And the next day …’ He cleared his throat. ‘My wife and I are completely innocent,’ he said, suddenly, the words tumbling out. ‘Naturism is a political and a cultural movement which is also related very much to good health. There’s nothing unclean about it and nothing, I assure you, that would demean or undermine my calling. I could mention that Adam and Eve were un
aware that they were naked. It was their natural state and it was only after they had eaten the apple that they became ashamed. Hen and I travelled in Germany together, before the war, and that was where we had our first experience. It appealed to us. We kept it a secret simply because we felt that there were people here who might not understand, who might be offended.’

  ‘And Dingle Dell?’

  ‘It was perfect for us. It gave us freedom, somewhere we could walk together without being seen. I hasten to add, Mr Pünd, that we did nothing wrong. I mean, there was nothing … carnal.’ He had chosen the word carefully. ‘We simply walked in the moonlight. You were there with us. You know what a lovely place it is.’

  ‘And all was well until your wife stepped onto a poisonous plant.’

  ‘All was well until Mary saw the pictures. But you don’t think for a minute – you – you can’t think that I harmed her because of it?’

  ‘I know exactly how Mary Blakiston died, Mr Osborne.’

  ‘You said – you said you’re about to leave.’

  ‘In a few hours from now. And this one secret I will take with me. You and your wife have nothing to fear. I will tell no one.’

  Robin Osborne let out a deep breath. ‘Thank you, Mr Pünd. We’ve been so worried. You have no idea.’ His eyes brightened. ‘And have you heard? According to the agents in Bath, Lady Pye isn’t intending to continue with the development. The Dell is going to be left alone.’

  ‘I am very glad to hear it. You were certainly correct, Mr Osborne. It is a very beautiful place. Indeed, you have given me an idea …’

  Atticus Pünd left the cemetery on his own. He still had fifty minutes until the meeting with Raymond Chubb.

  And there was one thing he had to do.

  2

  It took him a short time to write the letter, sitting with a cup of tea in a quiet corner of the Queen’s Arms.

  ‘Dear James,

  By the time that you read this, it will all be finished. You will forgive me for not having spoken to you earlier, for not taking you into my confidence, but I am sure that in time you will understand.

  There are some notes which I have written and which you will find in my desk. They relate to my condition and to the decision that I have made. I want it to be understood that the doctor’s diagnosis is clear and, for me, there can be no possibility of reprieve. I have no fear of death. I would like to think that my name will be remembered.

  I have achieved great success in a life that has gone on long enough. You will find that I have left you a small bequest in my will. This is partly to recognise the many years that we have spent together but it is also my hope that you will be able to complete the work of my book and prepare it for publication. You are now it’s only guardian but I am confident that it will be safe in your hands.

  Otherwise, there are few people who will mourn for me. I leave behind me no dependents. As I prepare to take leave of this world, I feel that I have used my time well and hope that I will be remembered for the successes that you and I shared together.

  I would ask you to apologise to my friend, Detective Inspector Chubb. As will become apparent, I have used the physostigmine which I took from Clarissa Pye and which I should have returned to him. I understand it to be tasteless and believe it will provide me with an easy passage, but even so it was a betrayal of trust, even a small crime, for which I am sorry.

  Finally, although it surprises me, I would like my ashes to be scattered in the woodland known as Dingle Dell. I do not know why I ask this. You know that I am not of a romantic disposition. But it is the scene of my last case and seems fitting. It is also a very peaceful place. It seems right.

  I take my leave of you, old friend, with respectful good wishes. I thank you for your loyalty and companionship and hope that you will consider returning to acting and that you will enjoy a long and prosperous career.’

  He signed the letter and slid it into an envelope that he sealed and marked: PRIVATE – TO MR JAMES FRASER.

  He would not need it for a while, but he was glad that it was done. Finally, he drank his tea and went out to the waiting car.

  3

  There were five of them in the office in Bath, framed by two double-height windows, the atmosphere strangely silent and still. Life continued on the other side of the glass but in here it seemed to be trapped in a moment which had always been inescapable and which had finally arrived. Detective Inspector Raymond Chubb had taken his place behind the desk, even though he had little to say. He was barely more than a witness. But this was his office, his desk, his authority and he hoped he had made that clear. Atticus Pünd was next to him, one hand stretched out on the polished surface as if it somehow afforded him the right to be here, his rosewood cane resting diagonally against the arm of his chair. James Fraser was tucked away in the corner.

  Joy Sanderling, who had come to London and who had drawn Pünd into this in the first place, sat opposite them in a chair which had been carefully positioned, as if she had been called here for a job interview. Robert Blakiston, pale and nervous, sat next to her. They had spoken little since they had arrived. It was Pünd who was the focus of attention and who now began.

  ‘Miss Sanderling,’ he said. ‘I have invited you here today because you are in many respects my client – which is to say, I first heard of Sir Magnus Pye and his affairs through you. You came to me not so much because you wanted me to solve a crime – indeed, we could not be sure that any crime had been committed – but to ask for my assistance in the matter of your marriage to Robert Blakiston which you felt to be under threat. It was perhaps wrong of me to refuse to do what you asked but I hope you will understand that I had personal matters to consider at the time and my attention was elsewhere. The day after your visit, I read of the death of Sir Magnus and it was this that changed my mind. Even so, from the moment that I arrived at Saxby-on-Avon, I felt myself to be working not only on your behalf but also for your fiancé, and that is why it is only right that you should both be invited to hear the fruits of my deliberations. I would like you also to know that I was very saddened that you felt the need to take matters into your own hands and to advertise your private life to the entire village. That cannot have been pleasant for you and it was my responsibility. I must ask you to forgive me.’

  ‘If you’ve solved the murders and Robert and I can get married, I’ll forgive anything,’ Joy said.

  ‘Ah yes.’ He turned briefly to Chubb. ‘We have two young people who are evidently very much in love. It has been clear to me how much this marriage means to both of them.’

  ‘And good luck to them,’ Chubb muttered.

  ‘If you know who did it, why don’t you tell us?’ Robert Blakiston had spoken for the first time and there was a quiet venom in his voice. ‘Then Joy and I can leave. I’ve already decided. We’re not going to stay in Saxby-on-Avon. I can’t stand the place. We’re going to find somewhere far away and start again.’

  ‘We’ll be all right if we’re together.’ Joy reached out and touched his hand.

  ‘Then I will begin,’ Pünd said. He drew his hand away from the desk and rested it on the arm of his chair. ‘Even before I arrived in Saxby-on-Avon, when I read of the murder of Sir Magnus in The Times newspaper, I was aware that I was dealing with a strange coincidence. A housekeeper falls to her death in what appears to be a straightforward domestic accident and then, not two weeks later, the man who employed her also dies and this time it is unmistakably a murder of the most gruesome sort. I say that it is a coincidence but what I mean is in fact quite the opposite. There must be a reason why these two events have collided, so to speak, but what is it? Could there be a single motive for the death of both Sir Magnus Pye and his housekeeper? What end could be achieved if they were both put out of the way?’ Briefly, Pünd’s eyes burned into the two young people sitting in front of him. ‘It did occur to me that the marriage of which y
ou spoke and which you both desired so fervently might provide a motive. We know that, for reasons that may be distasteful, Mary Blakiston was opposed to the union. But I have dismissed this line of thought. First, she had no power to prevent the marriage, at least so far as we know. So there was no reason to kill her. Also, there is no evidence to suggest that Sir Magnus was concerned one way or another. Indeed, he had always been amicably disposed towards Mary Blakiston’s son and would surely wish to see it go ahead.’

  ‘He knew about the marriage,’ Robert said. ‘He didn’t have any objections at all. Why would he have? Joy is a wonderful girl and, you’re right, he was always kind to me. He wanted me to be happy.’

  ‘I agree. But if we cannot find a single reason for the two deaths, what are the alternatives? Could there have been two murderers in Saxby-on-Avon, acting independently of each other with two quite different sets of motivation? That sounds a little unlikely, to say the least. Or could it be that one death was in some way the cause of the other? We now know that Mary Blakiston collected many secrets about the lives of the villagers. Did she know something about somebody that put her in danger – and had she perhaps told Sir Magnus? Let us not forget that he was her closest confidante.

  ‘And while I was turning these matters over in my mind, there was a third crime that presented itself to me. For on the evening of Mary Blakiston’s funeral, somebody broke into Pye Hall. It seemed to be an ordinary burglary but in a month in which two people die, nothing is ordinary any more. This was soon proven to be case, for although one silver buckle was sold in London, the rest of the proceeds were merely thrown in the lake. Why was that? Was the burglar disturbed or did he have some other aim? Could it be that he simply wished to remove the silver rather than to profit from it?’