I Saw Him Die

by Andrew Wilson

  “You have?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” I said. “You see, Miss Passerini lied about her most recent trip. It was not to Berlin but to South America. Her passport, which I have seen—never mind how—says as much. And we all know where curare originates, don’t we?”

  “South America,” said the inspector, as if he were the one who was near to solving the case.

  “Exactly,” I replied.

  “The other aspect to this murder is a rhyme—a nursery rhyme,” I said.

  Inspector Hawkins looked baffled. As I recited the first two verses of “Who Killed Cock Robin?” his look of puzzlement turned to bewilderment. Davison wasn’t quite sure where this was leading and so I had to convince him, too.

  “It’s clear that the Robin in the rhyme is Robin Kinmuir. At first it looked as though he was killed by the modern equivalent of a bow and arrow—the shot fired from the gun of James Kinmuir, his nephew—but we now know that to be wrong.”

  I took a breath and the two men waited for me to continue. “Now, to the point of ‘Who saw him die?’… In the rhyme it is the Fly. The words go, if you remember, ‘With my little eye, / I saw him die.’ ” When I went to speak to Mrs. Kinmuir in her attic room, she repeated the words to me. But we know that Mrs. Kinmuir was as good as blind due to her cataracts.”

  “I really can’t grasp what it is you’re trying to say, Mrs. Christie,” said the inspector.

  Even Davison looked confused if not a little embarrassed for me.

  “I’m sorry, no doubt I’m explaining it very badly indeed,” I said. “But I think someone is having a game with the rhyme. Using it as a device, if you will. Presenting something as truth as laid down according to the story of Cock Robin before undermining it.”

  “I’m still none the wiser,” said the inspector.

  “Why would anyone want to do that?” asked Davison.

  “That’s something we have to find out,” I said.

  “So, you don’t know?” asked the inspector in an irritated tone. He was clearly losing patience.

  “No, no, I don’t—not yet,” I replied.

  The inspector turned from me to make his way out of the library. “I can’t say this has helped, Mrs. Christie,” he said. “In fact, all it’s done is confuse me.”

  But I had one last trump card to play, a piece of information which I hoped would change the course of the investigation. “Do you know what Miss Passerini’s name means? Its Latin origin?”

  Davison, whose education was vastly superior to mine—he had been to Eton and Cambridge—suddenly realized what I was talking about. His eyes sparkled and his face shone with a renewed energy.

  But the inspector remained unmoved. “No, and I don’t see what this has to do with anything. I’ve got another dead body upstairs. I can’t stand around talking about children’s rhymes and the Latin origin of people’s names. Sorry, Mrs. Christie, I think you mean well, but perhaps it’s best if you took a step back from the inquiry.” He looked at Davison, hoping that the other man in the room would back him up.

  “I think it would be wise of you to listen to what Mrs. Christie has to say,” said Davison.

  “Do you know anything about birds, Inspector?” I asked.

  “Really—I’ve told you already, I don’t have time for idle chitchat,” he said, spitting out his words now. “Where’s that sergeant? Dedham?”

  He walked across the room of the library towards the door, turned the handle, and was about to open it and step out when I spoke.

  “You see, Inspector, a passerine is any bird of the order Passeriformes, which accounts for around half of all bird species. That itself is not much of a help to us. But when I tell you that, as with so many words, the root comes from the Latin, passer, which means, of course… sparrow.”

  The inspector seemed paralyzed. His fingers froze around the door handle. He took a moment to compose himself, made sure that the door was closed, and moved back towards us. As the various pieces of the puzzle fitted together in his mind, he looked at me with a newfound admiration.

  Now it was his turn to recite the first verse of the rhyme:

  “Who Killed Cock Robin?

  I, said the Sparrow,

  With my bow and arrow,

  I killed Cock Robin.”

  He took out his notebook and scribbled the verse down. “So we have her,” he said, working through his thoughts. “We’ve got the fact that she lied about her whereabouts, the fact that she recently paid a trip to South America—which, as we know, is the main source of curare. We have the factual evidence in the form of her earring, which I discovered at the scene of Mrs. Kinmuir’s death. And then we have the incontrovertible truth of her name. Miss Passerini is the Sparrow. She killed Cock Robin.”

  TWENTY

  “No, but wait…,” I said, but Inspector Hawkins was already out of the door.

  “Dedham?” he called out. “Where are you, man?”

  We followed Hawkins into the hall, where he was met by the sergeant, who came rushing down the stairs.

  “Have you seen Miss Passerini?” shouted Hawkins.

  “Yes, sir, I’ve left her upstairs with Mr. Peterson,” replied the young sergeant.

  “Bring her down here at once,” he said.

  “What do you intend to do?” asked Davison.

  “The only sensible thing I’ve done since I’ve arrived,” said the inspector. “Arrest her, of course.”

  “You can’t,” I said. “You see, I suspect it’s not as simple as Miss Passerini being the murderer.”

  But Hawkins did not want to hear my convoluted—and still far from complete—explanation.

  “I’m grateful for the information you gave me, Mrs. Christie, really I am. Now the law needs to do its job,” he said.

  Listening to this was a shocked-looking Miss Passerini, who had appeared at the top of the staircase, accompanied by Sergeant Dedham and closely followed by Mr. Peterson.

  “What information?” asked Mr. Peterson.

  “You don’t need to worry about that, sir,” answered the inspector. “If you would be so kind as to come down, Miss Passerini…”

  What was the phrase that sprang to mind? Lamb to the slaughter? That’s what the beautiful young woman looked like as she elegantly descended the stairs towards the inspector.

  “Is there something the matter?” she asked as she came face-to-face with Hawkins.

  “Miss Passerini, I’m arresting you for the murder of Mr. Robin Kinmuir—”

  At this there was a clamor of voices as everyone seemed to speak at once.

  “I don’t understand,” said Miss Passerini.

  “This is absolute nonsense!” exclaimed Mr. Peterson.

  “It was you?” said an astonished James Kinmuir, who walked into the house with Rufus Phillips just at that moment. “What did you have against him? What did my uncle ever do to you?”

  “If you’ll let me speak,” I said. But it was no use.

  “Please lower your voices,” said the inspector. “That’s better… and, Miss Passerini, I’m also arresting you for the murder of Mrs. Veronica Kinmuir.”

  The statement devastated James Kinmuir. His face looked gaunt, his eyes haunted, and he clenched his fists. It was obvious he was doing everything in his power to stop himself from attacking the young woman. Then he seemed to lose all strength in his body, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Had his friend not been there to support him, he might have dropped to the floor. All he could do was whisper over and over again one word: “Why?”

  All eyes turned to Miss Passerini for a response.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it, I tell you!”

  As the inspector approached her, she panicked and began to look at the main door and then back up the stairs as if searching for a means of escape.

  “You can’t run from us, my young lady,” said Hawkins. “It’s over for you, I’m afraid. You may as well cooperate,
make it easier on yourself.”

  “I’m not cooperating because I have nothing to do with this,” she said.

  “Yes, what evidence do you have?” demanded Mr. Peterson. “You can’t just arrest her without any evidence.”

  “All that will be presented to the specific authorities in question,” said the inspector. “All you need to know, Mr. Peterson, is that we have a great deal of very strong evidence that directly points to Miss Passerini as the murderer.”

  “And does it have something to do with what Mrs. Christie told you?” he asked in an accusatory tone.

  Now all eyes turned towards me. I felt myself begin to blush.

  “That’s confidential, I’m afraid,” replied Hawkins, who took hold of Miss Passerini’s arm.

  “Simon, please make this stop,” she begged. “I don’t think I can bear it.”

  “The law’s the law, I’m afraid, and nobody is above it,” said Hawkins. “Dedham?”

  “Yes, sir?” replied the sergeant.

  “Go and get the car ready. After that, you stay here at the house. I’ll deal with Miss Passerini.”

  “But I had nothing to do with it!” said Miss Passerini, her voice rising. “If you want to arrest someone, it should be her!” She lifted her arm and pointed at me. “She’s the one who’s been acting queerly.”

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Peterson. “Both Mrs. Christie and her so-called cousin.”

  “Really,” said Davison in an exasperated voice.

  “Now, now,” said the inspector, trying to calm the situation.

  “She’s the one who has been asking all sorts of odd questions and putting strange notions into people’s heads,” said Miss Passerini. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s behind this.”

  “Yes, I’d suggest reviewing whatever material you may have,” said Mr. Peterson to the inspector. “There’s such a thing as fabricated evidence, you know—placed there at the scene of a crime so as to incriminate a person. And she, Mrs. Christie, should know. After all, she’s a writer of detective fiction.”

  “Well, thank you for teaching me how to do my job, Mr. Peterson,” said Hawkins. “Now, Miss Passerini, if you’d be so kind as to accompany me to the police station…”

  TWENTY-ONE

  The arrest unsettled the house, but underneath the surface chatter there was something akin to relief. The murderer had been rooted out from among us. The purging had occurred. The poison had been cut out. The sinner had been expelled.

  I knew, better than most, that these comforting ideas were tropes from the world of detective fiction. Which is why I felt uneasy about the whole situation. There was something wrong about the arrest of Miss Passerini. Mr. Peterson had a point. It felt too neat, too staged.

  I had tried to tell Inspector Hawkins, but he had rushed ahead like—what was that phrase of my mother’s?—yes, like a bull in a china shop. I admired the inspector in many ways—he was a great deal more intelligent than many policemen I had encountered in the past—but there was nothing subtle about his method.

  After driving Miss Passerini to the police station in Portree, the inspector returned to the house. First of all he went to see Dr. Fitzpatrick to ask how he was progressing. Apparently, Mrs. Kinmuir’s body would be taken away soon for the doctor to carry out the postmortem. The inspector’s next task was to find the murder weapon. Hawkins enlisted the services of his sergeant and told us to confine ourselves to the dining room.

  When lunch was served at one o’clock, most of the guests enjoyed the food with a relish I had not seen for days.

  “This roast beef is delicious,” said Isabella Frith-Stratton.

  “Indeed it is,” said May, taking a forkful of flesh up from her plate. “Quite first-rate. And so rare, just how I like it.”

  There was something about the way the two sisters feasted on the nearly raw meat that turned my stomach. I placed my fork down on my plate.

  “I don’t know how you can eat that,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “I know I’ve become something of a bore on this subject, but really it’s barbaric.” She sighed as she added, “I can’t wait to get back to London. I must start rehearsals on the new play. And what about you, Mr. Peterson?”

  “I’ll stay around here for a while longer,” he said, staring at his plate. Perhaps Mrs. Buchanan’s words had made him think again about eating the roast beef. “Vivienne—Miss Passerini—will need all the help she can get.”

  “Help? Why would you want to help her?” Mrs. Buchanan’s voice rose with controlled anger. “After all, she was responsible for those two murders.”

  “Some of us like to believe in the law of innocent until proven guilty,” he said rather pointedly.

  Mrs. Buchanan turned from him and began talking to the Frith-Strattons.

  “And what are your plans, Mrs. Christie?” asked James Kinmuir. He had composed himself after the shocking news of his elderly relative’s murder. “You must be looking forward to your forthcoming marriage? It’s not long now, I believe.”

  “Yes, the eleventh of September,” I replied.

  “I’m only sorry you had to witness… well, all of this,” he said. “It’s been just ghastly.”

  “Terrible,” said Rufus Phillips. “I still can’t believe it, though, that Miss Passerini would do such a thing. She seemed quite a lovely girl.”

  “Yes, it does seem surprising, and not at all in character,” I said. “And what about you, Mr. Phillips? What are your plans? What of your painting of Mr. Kinmuir?”

  “I suppose it will remain an unfinished portrait,” he replied. “Perhaps that’s more fitting in a way. To complete it would be to dishonor its subject. As for my plans, I should like to go to Italy, but first I shall stay here and help James clear the house. I doubt we’ll have that long before the lodge has to be sold.”

  “Yes, I received a letter from Mr. Glenelg this morning, telling me what to expect,” said James Kinmuir. “It all seems very depressing, but of course nothing compared to the dreadful events of recent days.”

  “What I don’t understand is the motive,” said Rufus Phillips. “Why would Miss Passerini want to kill your uncle and then old Mrs. Kinmuir? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “I suppose the inspector will uncover all of that—unless you beat him to it,” said James Kinmuir, addressing me.

  “Me?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes, Mrs. Christie,” he replied. “What with your reputation, I would have thought you could crack the case.”

  I was beginning to feel nervous now. What did he know? I saw Davison glance over in my direction.

  “My reputation?”

  “As a writer of detective novels,” he replied. “What did you think I meant?”

  I laughed this off.

  “So, come on, what are your thoughts on the subject?”

  I took a deep breath. “Well, of course, I don’t know too much about the background of the case… but, to be honest, I’m rather surprised by the arrest of Miss Passerini.”

  “You are? Why?” asked James.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It just doesn’t seem right to me. I can’t explain it any better than that.”

  Mr. Peterson heard my comment and, flinging his fork down onto his plate, said, “That strikes me as a little rich. I believe it was something you told the inspector that got Miss Passerini arrested in the first place.”

  The room fell silent.

  Mr. Peterson continued. “Inspector Hawkins wouldn’t tell me what information you gave him, but perhaps you would care to enlighten me?”

  What could I say? If I told the table about the rhyme, it would sound nonsensical. And I had a feeling that that information should not be shared for the time being. If I told everybody that Miss Passerini had lied about her trip to South America, I would inevitably have to reveal how I had discovered the truth: that I had stolen into the young woman’s room and taken a look at her passport.

  “What’s wrong—the cat got your tongue?” M
r. Peterson said, enjoying his new role as a bully. To think he had once come to my aid in front of the inspector and now he was talking to me in this fashion…

  There was something about the words that struck me as slightly incongruous coming from the mouth of a man like Mr. Peterson. It was the kind of phrase one might use in the nursery, like the “Cock Robin” rhyme. Part of me thought it best to endure the slight, but why should I be silenced?

  I wasn’t about to let myself be intimidated by a man like Mr. Peterson. It was time to take a risk.

  “No, not at all,” I said. “I was just thinking how best to spare your blushes.”

  I could tell the comment unsettled him. “W-what?”

  “If you must know, I simply told the inspector about the letter,” I said.

  The whole atmosphere changed in an instant. Someone around the table—I didn’t notice who—dropped a knife or a fork onto their plate. Another person coughed nervously. Mr. Peterson glared at me with a fury I hardly thought possible.

  “But I thought we—” mumbled May Frith-Stratton.

  “Shut up!” exclaimed Mr. Peterson. There was a panic in his voice now. It was obvious he had something to hide. “Don’t say another word.”

  James Kinmuir looked puzzled and was about to ask for an explanation when the noise of a cough came from the entrance to the dining room.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” said the inspector.

  What had he heard of the heated interchange? How long had he been standing at the door?

  “What’s all this about?” he asked. “Why the raised voices?”

  Everyone around the table, apart from Mrs. Buchanan, looked down.

  “Mr. Peterson?”

  He did not answer.

  “I can understand you must all feel a little unnerved after what has gone on here,” said the inspector, walking around the table. He stopped and placed a hand on James Kinmuir’s shoulder. “It must have been awful, first to lose an uncle and then to be accused of his murder. But as I said, no suspicion should be directed towards you.”