by Ruby Loren
“Here are some examples to get you on the right track. This is a group challenge, so feel free to work on them together, or divide and rule. You have one hour before we move on to your final challenge. Good luck!” Damien disappeared from the screen and instead we were shown a static image of funeral wreaths, provided for our inspiration.
It was inspiration enough for me. I stepped in front of the screen and faced the group I’d worked alongside for the past two-and-a-bit days. A couple of people glanced up and fell silent when they saw the expression on my face. It wasn’t long before the entire group was quiet and watching me.
“I think it’s time we find out the truth about who is responsible for the death of Christine Montague,” I announced.
If it were possible, the silence got even more silent. No one moved a muscle.
“Spit it out then! Who’s the killer?” Eamon asked, looking half-enthralled, half-appalled by this shocking turn of events.
I tilted my head at him. “I believe that there’s a very good chance that it was you, Eamon. Or at least… you supplied something that made everything else possible.”
“Me? That’s ridiculous!” he protested as the others drew back from him.
“Allow me to explain. At first, I thought it was Sylvia who had poisoned Christine’s tea. The bitter smell of the tea was what first made me suspect poison - and a natural one at that. Poisonous plants often taste foul to alert the unwary eater that they are, in fact, poisonous. However, someone had clearly tried to cover up the taste with the strong-smelling chai. I examined the teabag, but chai is made up of a mix of spices and tea leaves, so it was hard to pick out the poisonous element by sight. It was only today that I realised the identity of the extra ingredient, and it was only because of something you said, Eamon.”
Eamon kept his face a mask of bafflement.
“Sylvia wrote the book on poisonous plants, but she wrote it on poisonous plants of the British Isles. I wracked my brains to come up with a British plant that might have caused Christine to remain subdued and then pass away without a struggle - prior to the attack that happened just after her death. I couldn’t think of anything that would do that. However, an expert on asian plants would know about the Indian suicide tree. It is a tragic favourite of those seeking a simple way to die in India. Consumption of the fruit causes the consumer to fall into a coma and then their heart simply stops beating. The seeds of the othalanga fruit have long been used in murders and are probably responsible for many undetected crimes because the cause of death is wrongly attributed to heart failure. I took one of the pieces in the teabag to be nutmeg, or cinnamon bark, but I studied the tree and its deadly harvest long before I was ever interested in growing flowers. It was a potential candidate for a natural insecticide one farm commissioned my laboratory to research for them. It would also account for the choice of a heavily spiced chai. I remember as part of my research, I learned that many poisoners use chilli to cover up the bitter taste of the kernels, but I bet a ground solution mixed with spiced tea would have the same effect with equally successful results.”
“You’ve got no proof,” Eamon said. “From where I’m standing, you’re the one who knows all about the othal-whatever fruit.” He tried to cover up his perfect pronunciation halfway through, but that just made it look as though he was overcompensating. Which he certainly was. Eamon was no hardened killer. He’d never expected to be called out on his contribution to murder, and he’d never envisaged having to defend himself.
“There’s proof in the teabag… which is going to remain in that room until the police arrive and they can do their own analysis.”
“You could have tampered…” Eamon spluttered, forgetting that the evidence would also be found in Christine’s digestive system now that a forensic pathologist would know what to look for.
“In answer to your second point, I have already admitted my prior knowledge of the othalanga fruit and its poisonous element, cerberin. However, there is nothing that ties me to Christine Montague, or Elliot Harving. The same, I think, cannot be said of you.”
“I’d never met Christine until the start of this course!” Eamon frowned at me but I could see sweat forming on his neck in spite of the chill in the air. He knew I’d got him.
“I think that may be true. However, I do think you’d met Elliot Harving. In fact, I believe you tutored him during his university years.”
Eamon’s mouth opened and shut. “I have a lot of students who go on to do great things. I couldn’t possibly say…”
“I’m sure a quick check of university records will be able to clear up whether or not you had any contact with Elliot Harving.”
Colour crept up the side of Eamon’s neck. “That doesn’t mean I killed anyone! Even if I did teach Elliot, why on earth would I have wanted to poison Christine Montague?”
“Because you believe that she was responsible for Elliot Harving’s death.”
A tiny flash of victory danced in Eamon’s eyes. “But I never even met Christine Montague! Why would I suddenly meet a woman and decide that she was guilty of a crime? All I know is that the couple responsible, the sculptors, were convicted and punished for their act of sabotage. Even if Christine Montague was somehow involved, how would I, a humble university lecturer, be able to find out anything about the inner workings of the garden design world, or Christine Montague’s mind?”
I nodded. “It is unlikely that you personally would have been able to find out anything more about a case that even the police were hoodwinked into believing that they’d solved. But Rich would definitely have been able to uncover that information from his position as Christine’s PR guru. When exactly did you start working for Christine?” I directed the question the young South African’s way.
Rich blinked, but his smile never faltered. “Did you just imply that I’m somehow involved in this? You just told us all that Eamon was the one who did it.”
“I believe Eamon was the one who poisoned the tea, but I don’t believe he climbed in and out of two windows, and he certainly didn’t singlehandedly inflict all of those stab wounds in Christine’s back. At first, they confused me because they varied in depth hugely. Some never pierced the skin and some thrust in deep. I wondered at first if there were two forks being used and the left hand of the attacker was weaker than the right, but I think we all know that there was only ever one fork, and I don’t think it probable that a killer in a murderous rage would pause to switch hands halfway through.”
The meaning of what I was suggesting hung heavy in the air. Now the group moved away from Rich as well as the ostracised Eamon.
Rich cleared his throat. “I don’t think I have to tell you when I started working for Christine…”
He meant it as in ‘it’s confidential’ but I deliberately took it a different way. “You’re right - you don’t have to tell me. I believe it was soon after the incident that ended in Elliot’s death. You were both of a similar age. I know that doesn’t mean you must have known each other, but I think you did.” I waved a hand to show it wasn't important if he told me the truth or not. “I believe you mistrusted the public version of events that led to Elliot’s death and you must have also had your suspicions about who was responsible. I’m going to hazard a guess that Elliot mentioned his rivalry with Christine Montague prior to his death, and that was what inspired you, a young and talented PR man, to pursue employment with Christine Montague. You might have suspected that she was involved from something Elliot said prior to his death, but I think you wanted to find out the truth by investigating it yourself.”
“And what did I find?” Rich asked, his amusement gone but no sign of a flicker of alarm in his expression. Rich was a tougher nut to crack than Eamon had been.
“I think you found something that made you sure enough about the truth that you decided to act and deliver the justice that was so gravely misplaced on the innocent sculpting couple.” Sylvia’s lips puckered for a moment when I mentioned the sculptors. I silently
confirmed another theory. “Once you knew the truth, the question was how to go about getting justice for Elliot without, presumably, incriminating yourself.” I looked around the room at all of the pale faces. “I suppose you came into contact with everyone else who was involved in the murder of Christine Montague and hatched a plan that would make sure no one was caught. After all, it’s not every day that multiple killers convene in order to make a crime appear to be something it is not - the act of a single perpetrator who carried out a random attack motivated by robbery.”
“That’s preposterous! None of us knew anyone before we all met on this course,” Eamon spoke up again, once more looking a tad too satisfied for my liking.
“I think you’re telling the truth,” I informed him, before I played my ace. It was with a flourish that I turned to face Fergus and asked him an essential question. “Who owns this bunker?”
My conspiracy-minded companion jumped to attention. “Sir Gordon Laird. He’s a private man who decided to buy the ex-military base seemingly out of the blue. However, he has military links himself, and I believe it was purchased to conceal evidence of an extraterrestrial landing site…”
I thanked him, deciding to ignore the part where Fergus had got sidetracked. “I think the search for a connection between Sir Gordon Laird and Elliot Harving will be an interesting one for the police to investigate.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Unless someone here wishes to enlighten me?” I looked around the room, knowing I had the mystery of Christine Montague’s death all but solved.
When no one spoke, I decided to tighten the screw. “Christine was professionally jealous of Elliot Harving’s success and rising stardom. She loved anything sculptural and used sculpture often in her garden designs. With her history of working as a structural engineer, it was her unique selling point. The best garden designers use the best suppliers. I would wager that both Elliot and Christine had commissioned sculptures for the Chelsea Flower Show from John and Winifred Culvert that fateful year. The next part was never witnessed, but I believe that Christine must have sabotaged Elliot Harving’s sculpture in some way which resulted in his untimely death. She did it in such a way that only a witness or confidant could prove she was the one responsible - and I think it’s probably a secret that she took to her grave. This lack of evidence is why you are all here to get justice for Elliot Harving.”
“And for John and Winifred! They would never have hurt a fly and they knew their business well. They had years of life and passion left in them. It was taken from them in that dreadful prison with a sentence they should never have been given. Pneumonia! Pah! It was their broken hearts that killed them – seeing everything they’d worked so hard on crumble to dust. They were shattered by Elliot’s death and for them to shoulder the blame on top of that… it was too much!” Sylvia cut in, breaking the silence that had settled over the group. A few accusing eyes landed on her. “I was just friends with them,” she finished defensively and then looked at me with a closed expression. She hadn’t confessed to anything beyond knowing the sculpting couple, but I’d already guessed it was her connection to the case.
Rich was still shaking his head. “Poison might be one thing, but which of us is supposed to have stabbed her? Her room was locked from the inside! We were all tucked up in bed. According to your own account, and corroborated by Lorna, you heard Christine alive and well at around two ‘o’ clock that night. It even makes your tea theory sound rather fanciful, doesn’t it?”
I allowed the tiniest of smiles to grace my lips. This was something that had stumped me for a while. “It would… if I really had heard Christine. I think she was dead a lot earlier than any of us realised. Someone went in to check that she was unconscious or dead. It was that person who then pretended to be Christine after knocking the incriminating mug over in her room, spilling the poisoned tea. It was an excellent cover and all part of the meticulously conceived plan. However, I do think it was overdoing it a bit to break the alarm clock and arrange the hands at the time she was supposed to have died.”
“But I tried the door. It was locked! Who else could it have been but Christine? She would have locked her own door, surely?” Lorna said. I noticed her eyes turned to Jack. He blushed crimson, no doubt remembering the lost master keys.
“It was those master keys, stolen by someone who knew where to look, that let the checker into Christine’s room. They knew that whoever came when the mug broke would try the handle when they got no response at first. The idea was that we would all assume her door remained locked from that time onwards and that the intruder could only have come through the window - left carelessly open. As soon as all was quiet again, at planned intervals, all of you crept into Christine’s room taking care to be silent - even covering your feet with the thick pairs of socks that a lot of you had in your suitcases to muffle any sound. If you were caught then, it would have been a disaster! But even so, I am sure you each had a plausible excuse as to why you might be wandering around in the middle of the night.
However, you did leave some evidence behind. A jewelled hairpin and a medical bracelet must have both fallen off unnoticed during your individual strikes against the woman who wronged a man and a couple that you all cared about. At first, I believed that evidence was planted to deliberately lead an investigator astray. It was just so obvious! But in the end, it didn’t matter either way. You’d already predicted that suspicion may turn on a member of the group and a luggage search must also have been an eventuality you foresaw, hiding various pieces of incriminating evidence in many peoples’ suitcases.”
“Doesn’t that suggest to an investigator that it wasn’t a break-in?” Fergus asked, frowning a little at the change of story.
I smiled at him. “I believe the perpetrators wanted to throw in as many red herrings as possible, but yes… in an ideal world, I still think they wanted the mysterious intruder to be culpable. I even think they opted for the military outfit and the phosphorescent glow in order to pique your own interest,” I told my companion. “The organiser must have tipped them off that you were coming.” I turned back to my stony-faced audience. “After the deed was done, and you’d had your moment of revenge, you each returned to your rooms. Everyone, I think, apart from Tanya and Rich. The military figure was supposed to be assumed to be a male, but upon reflection, I think that Tanya, with a little padding here and there, fits the profile I saw running away. Rich, you told me that one of your hobbies was climbing when you were growing up in Cape Town.” I glanced pointedly down at his calloused hands when I said it. Callouses the size of Rich’s were not the usual fare for a man who claimed to work solely in PR. “I think you’ve kept the hobby up and it came in handy for getting out of Christine’s window and back into your own without the aid of a ladder. That would allow you to have locked her door from the inside, cementing the idea that the killer entered through the window and left the same way. Sylvia helped, too, by first letting Tanya in and then making sure her window was open. ”
Rich shrugged his shoulders, not giving anything away.
“That sounds like utter rubbish to me,” Duncan suddenly announced. “I was in the same room as Bella for the whole night. She never left. She doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
I raised my eyebrows at Bella. Both of us knew that she had indeed left the room and that Duncan was (knowingly or not) lying for her.
“Does he know that you’re Elliot’s sister?” I asked her. There was a moment of charged silence whilst I kept my expression perfectly blank. It was a stab, if not in the dark, then in a dimly lit room, but I had a hunch I was correct.
When Bella shook her head, the whole house of cards finally tumbled down.
“We weren’t together long before we married. I’d already changed my name by then. I didn’t want to be the pitied sister of ‘that poor man’ Elliot Harving for the rest of my life. I wanted to move on and have a normal life,” she said, her eyes begging me to understand. “How did you know?”
“
Your Kindle case bore the initials ‘E.R.H’ but when Duncan introduced you as ‘Smith’ I made the assumption that the ‘H’ was a maiden name. I looked at your age and made an educated guess that you, an apparently innocent outsider with no connection to the gardening world, must have a connection. Because everyone here has a connection to Elliot Harving.”
“I don’t. I swear!” Jack said looking anxiously from me to Fergus.
“My apologies. I should have said everyone apart from three course members and your two guides. The guides were supposed to act as witnesses. Their job was to investigate any nighttime disturbances and their investigation would have played perfectly into your plan. I assume the only spanner in the works was when Fergus somehow managed to book us both on a course you’d intended to keep amongst a group of carefully selected people - with no connection to one another beyond professional reputation, and the secret that you all had an axe to grind with Christine Montague.”
I glanced at the timer on the wall and noted that the minutes were slipping by. The truth would have to come out soon or all of us would be in for a nasty shock for failing a challenge.
“It’s not like anything can be proven,” Rich muttered, more to himself than anyone else when no one said a word. “What happens on the retreat, stays on the retreat, right? I say we share the whole truth. Otherwise she is definitely going to go to the police, and she knows enough to get us all.” He directed the next comment at me. “We aren’t killers. I think you know that already.”
“I’m banking on it,” I commented. It would be no joke to be stuck, even for a few more hours, with a group of psychopaths willing to cut down anyone in their path, but this whole situation was different. I was certain this unlikely group had been drawn together by some terrible circumstances, which included a gross failing on the part of the justice system. This had been their last resort, and deep down, I believed they were willing to pay for what they had done - no matter the cost.
