“I see,” I said. “And do you know yet how Mr. Kinmuir became exposed to curare?”
The doctor looked at the inspector, who answered the question. “We do, but it’s something we’ve decided to keep to ourselves for the time being.”
For the curare to enter Kinmuir’s bloodstream, his skin would have had to have been punctured. What if James Hawkins had dipped the gunshot in curare, which he then fired into his uncle’s body?
“But what I can tell you is that there was no trace of curare on the shot that entered Mr. Kinmuir’s leg,” said the inspector, addressing James Kinmuir and Rufus Phillips. “The accident that occurred was unfortunate, but no guilt or culpability should henceforth be associated with either of the two young men here.”
The friends nodded their acknowledgment. No doubt they were relieved to know that they were in the clear.
Yet, almost immediately, a nasty air of suspicion descended upon the room. If not James and Rufus… then who had killed Robin Kinmuir?
“Have you heard of this poison, Mrs. Christie?” asked Mr. Peterson.
The question took me by surprise. “Well, yes, I have, as a matter of fact.”
“Really?” said the inspector. “I was led to believe that it’s incredibly rare and unusual.”
“Yes, it is,” I replied. “I came across it when I was in training at the dispensary during the war.”
“Indeed?” said Mr. Peterson.
“It sounds a little hard to believe when I recall it now, but there was a pharmacist who told me he used to carry a lump of curare in his pocket.”
“I can’t believe that,” said the doctor.
“That’s what I thought,” I replied. “He said he carried it around with him because it made him feel powerful.”
“Sounds like a most unpleasant man,” said Mrs. Buchanan.
“On the surface he appeared respectable,” I said. “In Torquay he was very well-liked.”
I looked up to see Hawkins eyeing me with suspicion. “But you’ve never carried it yourself?” he asked.
“Me? Of course not. Why would I want to do that?”
I thought of my secret selection of poisons locked in my case upstairs. My heart began to race.
“Oh, come now,” said Davison, standing up. “You can’t be seriously suggesting that my cousin here has anything to do with Mr. Kinmuir’s death?”
The room fell silent before the inspector began to read from a sheet of paper. “Strychnine, cyanide, morphine, arsenic, veronal, and… ricin: these are just a few of the poisons that you’ve used in the plots of your books. Am I right?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And how did you come to acquire this expert knowledge?” asked Hawkins.
“I think I told you: I was a VAD and then I worked in the dispensary in Torquay.”
Davison cast me a reassuring look from across the room, but it did nothing to settle my nerves.
The answer did not seem to satisfy the inspector. “You worked under a man who carried a lump of curare in his pocket?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” I said. I was conscious that my voice sounded weak.
Hawkins and Dr. Fitzpatrick continued to stare at me, as did Mr. Peterson and Miss Passerini. There was an air of heavy discomfort in the room now. I didn’t know quite what to say, and it was surprising who came to my rescue.
Mr. Peterson stood up and declared, “Look here—just because someone writes books in which these sort of things occur doesn’t mean that the author should then be under suspicion. It’s preposterous to think that Mrs. Christie could have anything to do with the murder.”
Inspector Hawkins did not look convinced, but he obviously decided not to pursue the matter. As he turned from me I felt I could breathe freely for the first time in what seemed like many minutes. The inspector had that admirable quality so rare in many policemen I had come across: an ability to see into the soul of a suspect. I wouldn’t want to be cross-examined by Hawkins, as he almost made me want to admit my guilt to him, even though I had nothing to confess.
“So now you all know the manner in which Mr. Kinmuir died,” said Hawkins. “Of course, this has consequences, I’m afraid.”
“Consequences?” piped up Isabella Frith-Stratton. “What kind of consequences?”
“Yes, what do you mean?” echoed May, no doubt emboldened by her sister’s question.
“All of you will have to remain here for the near future, I’m afraid,” said Hawkins.
There were immediate sounds of protest—announcements of imminent meetings and visits and travel schedules and claims that what he was suggesting was against the law—but the inspector silenced the group with the subtle raising of an eyebrow and the stern expression on his face.
“I’ve informed the procurator and the sheriff’s office and all the relevant authorities, and they’ve agreed,” he said. His voice was quiet, but anger whispered through it like a cold east wind. “You can stay here until one of you confesses, or I can take you all to Portree and lock you away. The choice is yours.”
SIXTEEN
I remained dumbfounded as Davison trailed behind Hawkins and Dr. Fitzpatrick out of the library, closely followed by a clearly distressed Mrs. Buchanan. The rest of us stayed behind in the room.
Surely the inspector was putting on something of an act in front of the other guests. After all, Hawkins knew that I was staying at the lodge with Davison at the behest of the Secret Intelligence Service. He couldn’t seriously suspect me of wanting to kill Robin Kinmuir.
“That was a bit harsh, I must say,” said Simon Peterson.
“Thank you so much for coming to my defense,” I said. “It was very gallant of you.”
“Well, I couldn’t let him talk to you like that. Not after… well, everything that’s happened.” As he lowered his chin his eyes widened and became more intense. Under normal circumstances it was the kind of absurd expression that would make me want to laugh, but now it just sent a horrible shiver through me.
“I’m not sure I understand you,” I said.
“You’re a very brave woman,” he said enigmatically.
I was about to ask him what he meant by that, but then he, in turn, put a question to me.
“I say, do you think he really intends for us to stay here until one of us confesses?”
“I suppose so,” I replied. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who makes empty threats.”
Peterson and I were joined by the Frith-Stratton sisters, who proceeded to ask me more about my work at the apothecary, and Miss Passerini, who said she wanted to know more about curare. I played along with the requests for information, but as Vivienne Passerini listened to me I kept wondering why she had lied about her visit to South America. I knew from my visit to her room that she had traveled to the continent where the poison originated—and had kept that trip secret. I could not let her know that I was aware of her lie, however. Deception would have to be met with deception.
As I spoke, I couldn’t get Mr. Peterson’s odd behavior out of my head. I needed to find out what he was thinking.
When the ladies in the group finally left the room, I turned to him and asked, “Mr. Peterson, would you mind stepping outside with me for a moment?”
He looked taken aback. “Of course,” he said.
We walked out of the French doors and onto the terrace that overlooked the sea loch, passing the lawns and the well-stocked herbaceous borders. The morning was a beautiful one. The mist that usually gathered just after dawn had cleared, leaving an expanse of water that seemed to stretch on forever. The air was soft and the sun warmed my cheeks. In the distance I could hear birdsong, but I couldn’t identify the call. As I strained my neck to see if I could spot the bird, I looked up at the silhouette of the ruined castle that stood above the lodge.
“Have you been up to the castle yet?” asked Mr. Peterson. “I find it a wonderful place to walk.”
“Yes, but only a few times,” I said. “I would l
ike to get up there more, but either it’s been drizzling or something has been happening around the house.”
“Yes, quite,” he said.
I looked at him, trying to pick up clues about his character from his appearance or the way he held himself, but there seemed to be nothing but surface. Was that in itself a clue of sorts? I cleared my throat and, with a slight hesitation, began, “I’m not quite sure how to ask you this, Mr. Peterson…”
“You don’t need to say anything,” he said, looking over his shoulder and lowering his voice. “I want you to know that we are all behind you.”
“You are?”
“Oh, yes, indeed.”
“Well, as I said, I am very grateful for the way that you spoke up for me back there, in front of Inspector Hawkins.”
“I don’t think he has any idea about what’s been happening here,” he said.
“You don’t?”
“No, he’s very much in the dark, I think.”
“Well he certainly believes he knows how the curare got into Mr. Kinmuir’s system—not that he’s telling us about it,” I said.
“It’s all bluff and double bluff,” he replied.
“Now, what I wanted to ask you is this. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that you’ve been… How can I put this? You’ve taken a certain interest in me.” I realized how wrong that sounded. “Oh, I don’t mean like that. No, not at all in that sort of way.”
Mr. Peterson started to blush at the awkwardness of the encounter.
“I’m terribly bad at this,” I said, feeling my cheeks begin to burn, too. “No, I mean to say that I caught you looking over at me on a number of occasions. And, yes, I realize that your interest is purely platonic. You were probably surprised by, I don’t know, a certain ill-advised item of clothing I was wearing, a badly chosen blouse or skirt, say, or something silly or foolish that I had said.”
There was still no response from him.
“But then, as time progressed—and please tell me if I’m in the wrong—I seem to have caught you sending me what I can only interpret as messages of encouragement. The odd look here, the nod of the head there. Is that right?”
He puffed out his chest a little and looked immensely pleased with himself. “I suppose you could say that, yes.”
“But what I don’t understand is why.”
He looked at me as if the sentence I had just spoken had been in a foreign tongue.
“W-why?”
“Yes, why? No doubt I’m being particularly stupid, but I don’t know whether I’ve said something or given you the impression that I was going to do a certain thing. Whatever it is, I’d like you to enlighten me.”
“So you didn’t get… a letter?”
“A letter? What kind of letter?”
At this his handsome face drained of color and he turned his back to me.
“Mr. Peterson? What are you trying to say?”
“Just a terrible misunderstanding. Please forgive me,” he mumbled, running his fingers nervously over his mustache.
“Has this got something to do with Mr. Kinmuir’s death?”
But he refused to look me in the eye. “Crossed wires on my part,” he said. “No offense meant. Please forget what I said.”
He started to walk away, back towards the main door that led into the house, but I rushed forwards to try to stop him.
“Please, Mr. Peterson, if I could just ask you a few questions,” I said.
His eyes had hardened and he looked through me as if I wasn’t there.
“What was it you thought I had done?”
There was no reply.
“And the letter you mentioned? Should I have received a letter?” I reached out to him and took the sleeve of his jacket, but he brushed me off. “Mr. Peterson. I’m just trying to find out what you think I know.”
“Nothing. I thought you knew… It’s nothing,” he said. His voice was curt and cold. “Now, please, there are certain things I need to attend to.”
There was no point in trying to shift him from his position. I knew that to do so would only lead to greater stubbornness. He turned from me and disappeared into the house.
I would have to find out the answers to my questions by other, less direct means.
SEVENTEEN
I needed to speak to Davison urgently, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. The door to the library was locked now, so I presumed he must be in another room with Inspector Hawkins and Dr. Fitzpatrick. As I was about to go up to my room I met Miss Passerini coming down the stairs.
“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” I said. “Shame we can only venture so far as the gardens. I’d much rather be walking around the loch or exploring the moor.”
“I can’t understand women who fear the great outdoors, worried that their hair might come out of place or they might dirty a shoe,” she replied. “I mean, who cares? I’d rather that than haul around a desiccated husk of a body and a dead spirit all through my life, wouldn’t you?”
“I think we are of the same opinion on that point,” I said. “My hand is aching from all the letters I’ve dashed off. I don’t think I’ve written so many letters in such a short period in the whole of my life! I suppose catching up on one’s correspondence is one of the benefits of imposed confinement.”
She smiled. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
It was time to take a risk. But what should I say?
“Would you mind coming into the drawing room for a moment?” I asked. I knew the room was empty and I needed to ask her something in private. “Talking of letters, I did receive a very interesting one recently.”
Her green eyes flashed me a look of—what was it? Warning? Shock? Bewilderment? Fear? Or a mix of all of these?
“Y-you did?” she asked as we stepped inside the room.
“Yes, really quite fascinating,” I said. “Telling me of the most, well, the most—how can I put it?—extraordinary things.”
“How unusual,” she said.
“I’m probably talking out of turn here, but you didn’t by any chance receive such a letter yourself?”
Miss Passerini stared at me with the most terrible intensity, and I could feel her emerald eyes burning into me. She took a step closer, so close that I could smell the musk of her perfume, and whispered, “I thought we weren’t supposed to talk about the letters.”
“Of course,” I said, lowering my voice. “Yes, I realize that and I know I shouldn’t talk, but I just wanted to know what you thought of its content.”
“What did you think of it?”
I was at a loss for words. I felt the heat of her breath on my skin. Her olive complexion was flawless and her fulsome red lips reminded me of an exotic bloom I had seen in Tenerife, a plant that survived by eating insects and flies. My mouth felt full of sawdust.
“I—I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it at first,” I said.
“And then? After you had read it once or twice? After you had… digested its contents? What did you think of it then?”
There was only so long I could carry on like this. I felt like a blind woman trying to find a needle in a haystack. “To be honest, I couldn’t make head or tail of it,” I said. “And—and what about you?”
“Me?”
“Yes. I wondered what you thought of your letter—the one that you had received.”
“Well, it was—”
Suddenly a voice boomed from behind us. “Look at you two—thick as thieves!” It was Simon Peterson. He strode over to us and took hold of Vivienne Passerini’s arm. “May I borrow Miss Passerini for a moment?” he said. The words were gallant and polite, but there was a desperate look about him. A line of perspiration had broken out across his forehead.
“Well, Miss Passerini was just about to tell me something very interesting, weren’t you?”
“You were?” There was a note of threat in Mr. Peterson’s voice as he stared at the young woman. “And what was the nature of the discussion? I hope it wasn’t malicious gos
sip. When women get together, they have a tendency to behave like nasty old cats, I find.”
“Yes, just some idle tittle-tattle,” I lied. “Nothing of any import. But we will be finished soon. It won’t take long, will it, Miss Passerini?”
The girl’s eyes darted between me and Mr. Peterson. “Mrs. Christie was telling me about a letter that she had received.”
“Was she?” said Mr. Peterson, turning towards me. “Now, isn’t that a coincidence!”
“What do you mean?” asked Miss Passerini.
Mr. Peterson left us for moment in order to close the doors to the drawing room. As he walked across the floor, back towards us, his footsteps were like those of a hangman making slow progress towards the trap. Fear constricted my throat, and I felt my breathing quicken.
“Now, Mrs. Christie, why don’t you tell us about this letter?”
“It was n-nothing really,” I said. “Just a practical joke, I’m sure.”
“Why don’t you share it with us?” His voice was light, almost amused. He was playing with me now, a cat which had caught his mouse and was going to act out his sadistic game until the very end. “I’m sure we could do with cheering up. After all, the atmosphere has been quite sour of late, don’t you agree?”
“I can’t really remember what it said,” I replied.
“That’s a shame. I was so looking forward to a little light relief,” he said.
“What’s all this about, Simon?” asked Miss Passerini.
“I suggest you ask Mrs. Christie here,” he said, turning to me. “Do you not have anything you’d like to say?”
I remained silent.
“You know, I’m disappointed in you,” Mr. Peterson continued. “I thought you were a mistress of words, able to command them at will to keep us all enthralled. And now you seem to have clammed up.”
I moved to step away from him. “Excuse me, I really must go and see my—”
“Oh, yes, your cousin,” he said, pronouncing the word as if he knew full well that Davison was not a relation of mine. “You don’t want to neglect Mr. Davison. No, that would never do. He’s quite a sensitive soul, isn’t he?” Again he lay emphasis on the word, clearly intending it as a slur on his character.
I Saw Him Die Page 12
