Eight Detectives

by Alex Pavesi

  Behind him somebody cleared their throat. He turned around. It was Inspector Goode, his deceased friend and former partner. He came over and reached up to the top of Lionel’s head, taking the orange wig that he’d forgotten he was wearing. ‘It’s important to have dignity where you’re going,’ said Goode. ‘Follow me.’

  The two of them walked out of the apartment, leaving Inspector Laurent alone in a room full of clues and red herrings, with a mystery to solve. Lionel Moon’s great regret, as he passed through his front door for the final time, was that he still didn’t know why someone had sent him a photograph of a photograph two days earlier, or what it was supposed to mean.

  14. The Seventh Conversation

  ‘Lionel Moon’s great regret,’ read Julia Hart, ‘as he passed through his front door for the final time, was that he still didn’t know why someone had sent him a photograph of a photograph two days earlier, or what it was supposed to mean.’

  She lowered the manuscript. Grant McAllister looked up at her. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘That’s the end, then?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Julia. ‘The book ends with an unresolved mystery.’

  ‘He solved his own murder, at least.’

  ‘That’s true. This story has a slightly different feel to it than the others. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Grant considered it. ‘There are supernatural elements, if nothing else. I’ve already mentioned that the definition doesn’t forbid them.’

  ‘But they do make it rather unfair on the reader.’ She made it sound like an accusation.

  ‘Maybe.’ Grant shrugged. ‘But this story represents the case where victim and detective overlap. We’ve looked at the overlap between suspects and detectives and suspects and victims, so this next step was inevitable. But even though the definition allows for it, it’s hard to pull off in practice.’

  ‘And that’s why you resorted to the supernatural?’

  ‘Yes.’ Grant scratched his nose.

  They were taking coffee in the rose garden, in the grounds of Julia’s hotel. Grant had offered to meet her there to save her walking to his cottage. It was her third morning on the island and already set to be another blisteringly hot day.

  He’d turned up soon after breakfast in his loose white suit and hat, his trouser cuffs stained orange from the walk. And he’d promptly spilled coffee on the sleeve of his shirt.

  ‘This is a very elegant hotel,’ he said. ‘Your employer puts you up in style.’

  ‘It was the only hotel we could find on the island,’ said Julia. ‘Is there another?’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ Grant laughed. ‘I’ve never needed one. Now that I come to think of it, there probably isn’t.’

  He was gazing distractedly around the garden, whistling to himself.

  Julia interrupted his thoughts. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about this story? You said it was a difficult structure to pull off. Why is that?’

  ‘Only because the detective is optional in our definition. So if you obfuscate their role too much by making them also the victim, the reader might not realize there was a detective at all. Having the victim come back as a ghost was a way around that. It was worth a shot, at least.’

  He was looking at a bird that was sitting on a statue – a woman holding a vessel of water – carved from a white stone that looked as smooth as chocolate. Julia was watching him. She felt nervous, now that everything was moving towards its conclusion.

  ‘I think you succeeded,’ she said. ‘And I like that it’s different from the other stories.’ She took a folder from her bag and opened it on her lap. She didn’t want him to suspect anything, not yet. ‘I had a go at reading your research paper again last night.’ She looked like she hadn’t slept; her eyes were red. ‘It was more comprehensible now you’ve explained some of the main points to me, but there was still a lot I couldn’t follow.’

  ‘There’s a lot we haven’t discussed.’

  ‘I was particularly interested in the list you give in section two, subsection three.’

  Grant gave her his full attention. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘May I read it to you?’

  Grant nodded. ‘Of course.’

  She looked down at the folder. ‘Armed with this definition,’ she read, ‘we can now set out mathematically the fundamental variations on the classic murder mystery.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grant, closing his eyes. ‘The permutations of detective fiction.’

  ‘The cases are as follows,’ Julia continued, taking a deep breath. ‘That where the number of suspects is equal to two. That where there are three or more suspects. The aberrant case with infinitely many suspects, which we allow but don’t consider worthy of comment. That where the set of killers has a size of one, a solitary actor. That where the set of killers has a size of two, partners in crime. That where the set of killers is equal to the entire, or almost the entire, set of suspects. That where a large share of the suspects, three or more but not all, are killers. That where there is a single victim, that where there are multiple victims. Any case formed by replacing A and B with any combination of suspects, detectives, victims or killers – except that of suspects and killers, which has already been accounted for – in the following: the cases where A and B are disjoint, where A contains B as a strict subset, where A and B are equal, where A and B overlap but neither is contained in the other. Notably that includes the cases where all detectives are killers, all suspects are victims, all detectives are victims. That where the suspects entirely consist of detectives and victims, and likewise the killers. That where the killers are only those detectives that are not also victims. That where the killers are only those victims that are not also detectives. That where every suspect is both victim and killer. That where every suspect is both detective and killer. That where every suspect is victim, detective and killer all in one. Finally, the case where all four sets are identical: suspects, killers, victims and detectives. And any consistent combination of the above.’

  Grant’s eyes were glowing with satisfaction. ‘That makes me nostalgic for my days of doing research,’ he said.

  ‘It’s an exhaustive, exhausting list. Was it ever your intention to write a story for each one of those permutations?’

  Grant was watching an ant crawl to the tip of a sundial, a few yards away from them. ‘There would be far too many. Especially when you take that last sentence into account. It was an aspiration, perhaps. But never an intention.’

  ‘And yet you stopped at just seven stories. Why was that?’

  It took him some time to answer. ‘Nobody was interested in murder mysteries after the war. They became outdated very quickly, next to all that real death.’

  ‘Some of the conventions are out of date, perhaps. But the structure itself is alive and well.’

  He looked doubtful. ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘What I mean is that if you read a crime novel now it’s impossible not to wonder how it will end. That emphasis is borrowed from the murder mystery. You might not be wondering specifically which character committed the murder – maybe that’s been clear all along – but you’ll still be wondering which of a small, finite set of possible endings the author will commit to. So the structure is still there.’

  Grant was smiling. He sat in silence for a moment. ‘Yes, I think you make a good point. I’ve never looked at it like that before. But it doesn’t disprove my claim that the conventional murder mystery is out of date. I felt that very tangibly towards the middle of the nineteen forties and that’s why I stopped writing them.’

  ‘It’s a shame,’ said Julia, and she picked up her coffee cup.

  ‘Did you notice any inconsistencies in this story?’ He took his own coffee cup and drank the last mouthful of bitter liquid. It was lukewarm.

  ‘Yes. An easy one this time.’ Julia shrugged. ‘The whole orphanage burned down when he was a child, but as a teenager he visits the rooms where he’d lived when he was young. So did it burn down
or not?’

  ‘I see,’ said Grant. ‘Yes, I should have spotted that one.’

  Julia put her empty cup down and pointed behind him. ‘Have you ever been up there?’

  She was pointing to a section of the coast just outside the town, where the land rose to a considerable height and a sheer cliff looked down suspiciously at the sea.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, quietly. ‘I know it well.’

  Julia couldn’t take her eyes off it. ‘It looks very dramatic. I have a draft of the introduction in my bag. Perhaps we could walk up there to read it? To make an occasion of it.’

  Grant raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said. ‘When did you find the time to write that?’

  ‘Last night, mostly. After I left you.’

  He whistled in admiration. ‘Then yes, if you like. I haven’t been up there in a very long time. But I’m keen to hear what you’ve written. And the island is worth seeing in its entirety.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, and packed up her things.

  15. The Final Conversation

  Julia Hart looked back as she struggled up the loose hillside; Grant had fallen behind and for the first time the difference in their ages was apparent, though his excitement was undiminished. She waited for him to catch up, standing slightly off the path.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This didn’t look so steep from below.’

  Grant stopped to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘It’s not that bad,’ he said, ‘only the heat makes it so much harder.’ The corners of his white clothes were circled with sweat.

  Julia turned back to the path. The hill in front of them led up to the dramatic precipice that they’d seen from the rose garden of her hotel. The top half of it was scattered with small patches of yellowing woodland.

  ‘Those trees will give us some shelter,’ she said. ‘We can take a break when we reach them.’

  ‘The last time I did this I found it easy.’ Grant was squinting at her outline. ‘Growing old is a graceless thing, I’m afraid.’

  They started moving again.

  It didn’t take them long to reach the line of slender, questioning trees that marked the start of the brief woodland; the path they were following led them straight through the middle of it. After thirty yards or so they came to a clearing ringed with swollen rock formations. The light inside was a gaudy yellow and green from the sun shining through the leaves.

  ‘A natural amphitheatre,’ said Grant, stroking one of the rocks. ‘It’s a few years since I last came here.’

  ‘This island seems to have everything.’

  Grant had regained his energy now that they’d come to a stop. He lifted himself onto a rock and turned to face Julia, his legs dangling over the side. ‘I fell in love with it the moment I arrived.’

  Julia looked around. She wished they’d brought some water with them, or some wine. ‘I’ve never been anywhere like it.’

  He took off his hat and fanned himself with it. ‘I must admit, I was apprehensive of your visit at first. I’ve lived a simple life for the last few years. But I’ve found it stimulating.’ He wiped his forehead again and let the damp handkerchief fall heavily to the ground.

  ‘I don’t think we should go any further,’ said Julia. ‘It might be easier to talk here, out of the wind.’

  Grant nodded. ‘And you have a draft of the introduction for me to hear?’

  ‘Yes.’ She tapped her bag. ‘But before we discuss that I think we should make a decision about the title of the book.’

  ‘The White Murders. Do you think we should change it?’

  ‘I won’t be the only one to notice the similarity between the White Murder and The White Murders. We should at least decide what we’ll say if the question arises.’

  ‘Then I think we should change it.’ He tossed his hat from one hand to the other. ‘How about The Blue Murders?’

  ‘It sounds rather seedy.’

  Grant chuckled. ‘Then do you have a suggestion?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ She took a deep breath. ‘But I’d still like to know why you called it The White Murders.’

  Grant picked up a twig and started to peel the bark with his fingernails. ‘I told you, I found it evocative. If it sounds similar to something else, that’s just a coincidence.’

  ‘There are quite a few of those coincidences, throughout the book. The White Murder certainly caught your imagination.’

  Grant tore off a leaf and placed it on the rock beside him; a defensive move in a game of chess. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Do you remember the details of the White Murder?’

  A long period of silence passed; Grant looked like a lizard on his rock, barely moving at all. ‘Only what you told me the other day.’

  ‘Then listen.’ Julia was standing in front of him like a teacher at a blackboard, with a wall of trees at her back. ‘The White Murder took place on the twenty-fourth of August, nineteen forty. Miss Elizabeth White was murdered on Hampstead Heath. She’d been taking her dog for a walk, just before sunset. When she reached the Spaniards Inn, a well-known public house that stands on the edge of the heath at the north end, a man stopped to speak to her. She was seen by several witnesses talking to a man in a blue suit. The two of them continued onwards together. An hour or so later she was found in the road outside the Spaniards Inn. She had been strangled. That was at half past nine at night. Her dog had gone missing and was never seen again. They never found her killer.’

  Grant shook his head. ‘That’s all very interesting. But why are you telling me this?’

  Julia continued. ‘It might not seem relevant, at first glance. But here we have your stories, seven of them, each one containing at least one detail that doesn’t quite make sense. The first one has a Spanish villa with an impossible layout and an impossible chronology. The second has a scene that ought to take place during the day but turns out to be set at night, at nine thirty exactly. The third has a duplicate man wearing a blue suit whose presence is never explained. The fourth highlights the word white by replacing it everywhere with its opposite. The fifth has a dog that seemingly vanishes. The sixth is filled with descriptions of strangulation though no one in the story is actually strangled. And the seventh has a resurrected orphanage named for St Bartholomew, whose feast day happens to be the twenty-fourth of August. And all of these stories are brought together under a title, The White Murders. That’s quite a lot of coincidences.’

  Grant swallowed audibly. ‘Yes, that is quite a lot.’

  ‘Then do you still deny it?’

  He spent a long time considering the question, seeming to calculate. ‘I don’t think that would do me much good. You’ve got me. Those are all references to the White Murder.’ There was a pained look on his face. ‘I don’t remember doing that. Putting those in, I mean.’

  ‘It seems unlikely that you would forget. It must have been quite a careful, deliberate act, to work in that many of them.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’

  ‘It must have taken a long time.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  Julia stared straight through him. ‘Grant, it’s becoming increasingly hard to believe what you’re telling me.’

  He tapped his heels against the rock. ‘What can I say?’

  A flurry of wind filled the clearing then and a cloud of dust and leaves seemed to rise from the ground, swirling in circles; the island was suddenly loud. Julia let the noise die down before answering him.

  ‘I don’t expect you to say anything. I don’t expect anything at all, because I don’t believe that you are the author of these stories.’

  The clearing became quiet again.

  An amphitheatre with a single person sitting in it is nothing more than an elaborate throne, so Grant sat there in that grand chair, unable to move, as if he was a king caught in checkmate.

  ‘What a strange thing to say.’ His voice cracked and he began to cough. ‘Why would you say a thing like that?’

  ‘It’s tr
ue, isn’t it? You’re not the author of these stories. You’re not Grant McAllister. You’re somebody else entirely.’

  The blood drained from his face. ‘Of course it’s not true, not at all. Why on earth would you think such a thing?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’d like to know.’ Julia took a step towards him. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve been suspicious of this situation from the start. I’ve seen authors embarrassed by their early work, others stubbornly proud of it. But I’ve never met one so frankly uninvested in it.’ She started to pace from side to side with one hand held aloft, a finger pointed at the sky. ‘You’ve explained the mathematics to me at great length. But you’ve told me almost nothing about the stories themselves. How they came to be written, why you made the decisions you did.’

  ‘I wrote them a long time ago.’

  ‘There’s also the fact that Grant was born and raised in Scotland, but you don’t have a Scottish accent. And Grant would be about ten years older than you appear to be.’

  ‘I grew up close to the border. I look young for my age.’

  Julia stopped in the centre of the clearing. ‘And you fell into my trap.’

  At her use of this word Grant looked around, as if worried that his life might now be in danger. But the moment of panic passed and he relaxed again; Julia was watching him and under her stubborn gaze he seemed to sink into a kind of stoic resignation.

  ‘What did you do?’ he asked.

  ‘It started with that first story. I made a mistake, that’s all. When I was reading it out. My head was spinning from the heat, my vision was blurry. I’d ringed the last few lines of the text in red pen, to suggest a change of wording. But in fact I missed them entirely. So I only read out half of the ending. And you didn’t even notice.’

  ‘A few lines, that’s nothing.’

  ‘A few lines,’ said Julia. ‘But they changed everything. The story had Megan and Henry arguing over which of them killed their friend Bunny, do you remember? He’s lying on a bed upstairs with a knife in his back. They’re trapped in his house on a very hot day, trying to decide what to do next. They know that one of them is the murderer but neither will admit to it.’