I suddenly felt anger rise within me. Mr. Peterson could threaten me all he liked, and endure it I would, but I could not stand there and let my friend’s name be taken in vain.
“Don’t you dare say anything against my cousin,” I said. There was fire in my voice. “Mr. Davison is a good and honorable man. And I must warn you, you cross him at your peril.”
Mr. Peterson and Miss Passerini were both rather taken aback by the strength of my words.
I took a deep breath and spoke more politely. “Clearly, there has been a misunderstanding between us, and for that I can only apologize,” I said. I chose my next words carefully, echoing those that Mr. Peterson had used with me on the terrace outside just a few minutes before. “Now, please, there are certain things I need to attend to.”
EIGHTEEN
“Gosh, you look flushed,” said Davison, welcoming me into his room. “Have you come back from an energetic stomp across the moor?”
“No, I wish I had,” I said, walking over to the window. “I’ve just had a strange encounter with Mr. Peterson and Miss Passerini.”
“I want to hear all about it,” he said.
“I’ll tell you after you fill me in on what happened between you and the inspector,” I said. “I presume you’ve been locked away with him and Dr. Fitzpatrick in the library. And what was he implying with all that nonsense about the poisons in my novels?”
“I think it was a bit of a show,” he replied. “To put people off the scent. He has to be seen to treat you like the other guests: a fellow suspect.”
“Well, it was rather too convincing for my liking,” I said. “Anyway, enough of that. What did he tell you about Kinmuir? How did the curare get into his system?”
“I suggest you sit down.” Davison gestured to a leather armchair. He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his blond hair. “As you know, curare does no harm to a person if it is taken orally, so we can rule out somebody spiking his coffee at breakfast. As you also know, Hawkins took the very sensible step of sealing off Kinmuir’s bedroom suite. When Dr. Fitzpatrick discovered that the method of death was curare poisoning, he looked for possible signs of entry on the body: puncture wounds and such like. The injury to his leg was dismissed out of hand because there was no trace of curare on the shot. Dr. Fitzpatrick went over every inch of Kinmuir’s body, and the only other possibility was an inflamed area on the dead man’s throat, a piece of skin that looked as though it had been cut recently.”
I thought back to our first night at Dallach Lodge.
“That first night when Kinmuir was talking about his difficulties appreciating modern art, he scratched his throat because he had a midge bite,” I said.
“Did he, now?”
My thoughts came quick and fast. “But surely that insect bite can’t have anything to do with it? No, that wouldn’t do at all. But could the curare have been on his fingers somehow? Possible, but very unlikely, as I’m sure Kinmuir would have noticed: as the inspector said, it often comes in the form of a dark paste, and he would have washed it off his hands. What would he have done that morning?”
Davison knew the answer to the question, of course, but enjoyed watching me try to piece it together for myself.
“Don’t tell me,” I said, getting up from the chair. “I want to work it out.” I walked over first to the window and looked out at the sea loch before making my way over to the wardrobe and then coming to stand by Davison’s basin in the corner of the room. There, on the sink, was the answer.
“Of course: his razor!” I exclaimed. “That’s the only thing that makes sense. I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Yes, Agatha, you are,” he said, in the patronizing manner of a tutor towards his rather dim charge. “Dr. Fitzpatrick found traces of curare on Kinmuir’s razor. That morning Kinmuir shaved as usual but must not have noticed anything unusual about his razor. It’s most likely he cut himself; Dr. Fitzpatrick says the spot or inflamed area was a midge bite that had got infected and then he nicked it with his razor. The poison from the razor entered his bloodstream and, after breakfast, when he went for his routine walk with his dogs, he died as a result of asphyxiation after the shot which hit him was fired.”
“How awful,” I said. “And we were sent to protect him.”
“Indeed we were, and we failed,” said Davison. “But we can’t dwell on that now. The best we can do is to try to find out who did this. Now, what have you learnt?”
I told him of the odd conversation I had had with Mr. Peterson and the awkward scene involving both him and Miss Passerini.
“Let me see if I have this right,” said Davison. “So the whole business centers around a letter which you think Mr. Peterson received. He also believes that you were the recipient of a similar letter. But we don’t know what the letter said.”
“I know it doesn’t sound like much when you say it like that, but there’s something behind it which is extremely odd.”
“I have every trust in your instincts and I don’t doubt you for a moment,” he said. As he blinked a couple of times I could almost hear his brain whizzing away. “I’m just trying to think through the possibilities.”
“Well, we know that Miss Passerini lied about her recent trip to South America,” I said. “We also know that curare comes from that continent. It seems to me that Mr. Peterson suspects me of being the one behind Mr. Kinmuir’s death. And Mr. Peterson and, most likely, Miss Passerini received a letter, a missive that he thought I had received, too.” I paused as I tried to make sense of it all. “Do you think we should tell Hawkins what we know?”
“No, not just yet. We haven’t got quite enough yet to go to him.”
“We need to find out what was in that letter,” I said. “And who else in the house received a similar one.”
“What are you suggesting?” he asked.
“I’m wondering whether there is any connection between the threatening letters that Mr. Kinmuir received before his death and the enigmatic letters that Mr. Peterson and Miss Passerini received.”
Davison looked alarmed. “What? I don’t understand. Are you saying that Peterson could be a victim? I thought we had him down as a potential murderer, or at least an accomplice to the act.”
“I’m not sure, but I’m certain that there are other people in the house who are in danger.”
“But why?”
It was then that we heard a scream.
NINETEEN
We flung open the door of Davison’s room and rushed out into the corridor. The noise—high-pitched, full of terror—seemed to be coming from the very top of the house. Davison ran ahead, taking the stairs three at a time, following the screams. As I trailed behind, up towards the attic rooms, I had a horrible sense of foreboding. Oh, please, please let it not be her…
I reached the top level of the house and ran as fast as I could. Outside Mrs. Kinmuir’s room stood a young maid, a hand over her mouth, her skin ashen. At her feet was a tea tray, its contents spilt onto the floor. There was a slice of Victoria sponge cake on the carpet; jam oozed out of its middle like a fresh wound. Tea leaked out of the broken teapot and spread a nasty bloom across the carpet.
Although my natural reaction was to turn away and run back downstairs, I forced myself to step forwards towards the open door. The girl was clearly distressed. I needed to see inside the room, even if it was, as I suspected, something I would find greatly distressing. As I approached, the young maid looked at me with eyes full of fear. She opened her mouth to say something, but she could not form the words.
“Now, now, my dear,” I said. “You’ve had a terrible shock.”
She gestured down at the broken tea things and started to apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to drop them, but…”
“What’s your name?”
“It’s R-Rose. Rose Stewart, ma’am.”
“It’s not your fault, my dear. We can get one of the other girls to help clear up the mess.”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I ca
n manage,” said the girl. It was clear she was in shock. “She always used to like a cup of tea and bit of cake in the middle of the morning. But now she won’t be able to enjoy her Victoria sponge.” Her breathing quickened and she looked as though she might start to cry out again.
“You must pull yourself together, Rose,” I said, taking a stern tone with her. “You have to be brave. All of us must.”
She wiped her tears, saw that I was talking sense, and bent down to try to gather the pieces of the broken pot. As she reached out I noticed her hands were trembling.
The inspector and the doctor and other occupants of the house would no doubt arrive at any moment. We did not have long to examine the room. I left the girl to her tidying, took a deep breath, and stepped through the open door.
I saw Mrs. Kinmuir sitting in the tartan armchair, her head lolling forwards, her arms dangling down by the sides of the chair like an old rag doll. Davison was crouched down next to her, checking the floor for clues. By his feet, spread across the carpet and scattered underneath the armchair, were the playing cards that I had used that day when I had paid Mrs. Kinmuir a visit. It looked as though the cards had been knocked from the table in the last moments of the old lady’s life.
As I stepped closer I noticed that blood had trickled down the back of Mrs. Kinmuir’s head, creating a scarlet necklace and staining the collar of her white blouse a bright crimson. Tears pricked my eyes as I contemplated what had been done to the dear old lady. She should have spent her remaining days in a state of blissful ignorance, something akin to a second childhood, her every need met. She did not deserve to die such a death.
Davison gently lifted the hair at the nape of Mrs. Kinmuir’s head to reveal a small stab wound. There was nothing nearby that looked like it could have been used to kill her. The murderer must have taken the weapon with them when he—or she—fled the scene.
What was it Mrs. Kinmuir had said to me that day when I had paid her a visit? I saw him die. The words of that nursery rhyme echoed through my thoughts. I began to repeat the words, first to myself and then out loud so Davison could hear:
Who Killed Cock Robin?
I, said the Sparrow,
With my bow and arrow,
I killed Cock Robin.
Who saw him die?
I, said the Fly,
With my little eye,
I saw him die.
When I had finished the second verse, I saw Davison looking at me as though I had become quite deranged.
“I know it sounds odd,” I said, “but it makes sense, don’t you see?”
“I don’t see anything, and in case you forget, neither did Mrs. Kinmuir,” said Davison. “She was blind, or close to it. Cataracts.”
“Yes, I know that, and of course when you put it like that, it makes no sense. But Cock Robin… I think that’s Robin Kinmuir.”
“He wasn’t killed by a bow and arrow but by curare poison.”
“Yes, but—”
Just then we were interrupted by the appearance of Inspector Hawkins and Dr. Fitzpatrick at the door.
“We heard the screams and came running, and then saw the girl outside in a state. What’s—” said Hawkins, stopping himself as he saw the body in the armchair. “Oh, my dear God. Is she…? Please examine her quickly, Doctor.”
Dr. Fitzpatrick felt her pulse and pronounced her dead. “Poor Mrs. Kinmuir,” he said. “I’ve known her ever since I was a boy. She was as gentle as a newborn lamb. Never had a harsh word to say against anyone. In fact, she was like a second mother to me when my own mother died. I’ll never forget her kindness. And in her dotage she was the same. She may have lost her faculties but not her ability to be kind.”
I expected the inspector wanted the doctor’s professional opinion of what had happened to her, not his personal reminiscences.
“What do you make of it?” asked Hawkins.
The doctor began to examine the body. He saw the wound at the back of the neck, the blood that soaked into the collar of her blouse, the cards on the floor.
“It seems obvious, doesn’t it? There’s a deep stab wound here on the neck, as you can see,” he said, pointing to the source of the blood, “which would have resulted in if not an immediate death then at least a mercifully quick one.”
The inspector examined the room in silence. Then it was his turn to utter his interpretation. “I would have thought that the old gal was sitting in her chair, perhaps asleep, perhaps pretending to herself that she was playing a card game, when someone came in,” he said. “That person walked behind her, took out the weapon—a sharp knife or hunting dagger, say—and then attacked the old lady, pressing hard on the spot in the back of the neck. During the attack the cards got displaced from the table. But there would not have been much of a struggle: Mrs. Kinmuir looked fragile and could not have been very strong. One must keep an open mind about the murderer.”
“What do you mean?” asked Davison.
“One always assumes that a killer has to be a man,” he said, glancing at the floor, “but on certain occasions one cannot be entirely sure.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked. I had still not quite forgiven the inspector for the way he had addressed me in front of the other guests, but I couldn’t hold my grudge against him for much longer. Also, my curiosity got the better of me.
His eyes shone and, with a triumphant air, he bent down and picked up something from the carpet. “Voilà!” he exclaimed, brandishing an earring in the palm of his hand.
I stepped forwards and examined the jewel. I knew that I had seen it before.
“Do you recognize it?” asked the inspector.
“Yes. I believe it belongs to Miss Passerini,” I said.
“I see,” said Hawkins, nodding his head as if this one piece of evidence was enough to convict her.
I knew I had to relate to the inspector the lie Miss Passerini had told about her visit to South America, but I had to be careful what I said. “Talking of Miss Passerini,” I began, glancing at Davison in the hope that he would agree that now would be an appropriate time to share the information, “I think it’s only right that you should know something that has recently come to light. It seems a little indelicate to discuss it over… well, at this particular moment,” I said, looking down at the body of Mrs. Kinmuir.
“Yes, of course,” said the inspector, turning to the doctor. “Sad business, this, but, Dr. Fitzpatrick, you know the procedure.”
“Very well,” said the doctor, whose stoic expression concealed the depth of his pain. The poor man had lost first his good friend and now the kind old lady.
We left the doctor behind as we filed out of the room, past the tea-stained carpet, and towards the stairs. At the top of the stairs stood a somber-faced Simkins, who, on the inspector’s instructions, had taken on the role of serving as a kind of sentinel to stop the curious and the caring—Mr. Peterson, Vivienne Passerini, the Frith-Stratton sisters, Mrs. Buchanan, James Kinmuir, and Rufus Phillips—from entering the attic floor. Even now, in this desperate state of affairs—after everything that had gone on, including the death of his master—the butler was doing his best to try to protect the reputation of the house. Even though his new master, James Kinmuir, was telling him to stand down so he could get past, Simkins remained impermeable.
“This is a disgrace!” shouted Kinmuir. “I order you to let me pass!”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the butler, “but I have my orders directly from the inspector not to let anyone up.”
“What’s the meaning of this?” demanded Kinmuir as he saw the inspector. “What is going on? Who was making all that noise?”
“Yes, I do think you owe us an explanation,” said Mrs. Buchanan, who stood behind James Kinmuir.
“You will find out in due course,” said the inspector. “Simkins, prevent anyone from going up to the attic.”
“Has someone been hurt?” asked a frightened-looking May Frith-Stratton, who had joined the group with her sister. “A
re we in any danger? If we are, we really should be allowed to leave the house.” She stepped towards James Kinmuir and looked up at him with spaniel eyes. “Oh, Mr. Kinmuir, thank goodness you are here to protect us.”
“And, yes, at least we have the men to keep us safe,” Isabella said.
As I passed by the little group, Mr. Peterson and Miss Passerini remained silent. They looked at me with eyes full of dark suspicion. They knew that I knew something. But did they have any inkling what that was exactly?
The inspector led the way into the library, which had been unlocked again and now had something of the atmosphere of an inquiry room. A desk and two chairs had been commandeered to serve as Hawkins’s interrogation space. Papers full of scribble lay scattered across the surface of the antique bureau. The shelves of books no longer spoke of their own stories contained within their leather covers but seemed to want to whisper the secret accounts of the guests who had sat before the inspector. But which tales were true and which were false?
“Now, Mrs. Christie, you had something you wanted to say?” asked Inspector Hawkins.
I looked once more at Davison, who returned my gaze with a bow of the head.
“Yes, there’s quite a lot to tell you, so please forgive me,” I said. I checked to see if the door had been shut and the windows were closed. “As you know, all this started with the death of Mr. Kinmuir—Mr. Robin Kinmuir—who was poisoned by curare, the toxin having been placed on his razor.” The inspector looked surprised. “Yes, Mr. Davison told me all about that,” I explained.
“We are working as equals here,” said Davison.
“I see,” said the inspector with a note of astonishment in his voice. No doubt he was the kind of man who believed a woman was only good for one or two things, activities confined to either the kitchen or the bedroom.
I did not want to alienate him at this stage and so indulged him with a little flattery. “You were quite right to pick up on Miss Passerini. I’ve had my suspicions about her for some time.”
I Saw Him Die Page 13
