As I checked myself in the mirror, I wasn’t surprised to see an exhausted face staring back at me. The lines that I normally covered with powder seemed more defined, the shadows under my eyes more pronounced. And the light in my eyes that normally lifted a very plain and mediocre face seemed to have dimmed if not died. I couldn’t stomach breakfast or the prospect of sitting across the table from Davison, and so I quickly dressed and decided to go for a walk.
I knew from past experience that walking improved my spirits. I remembered the dreadful feeling of hopelessness that had almost engulfed me when I had been at a loss to decide how to finish my first published novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. My mother had packed me off to a hotel on Dartmoor and each afternoon I would stomp across the moorland, talking to myself about plot points and poisons. The fresh air and exercise—the simple act of placing one foot in front of the other—had done the trick, and after a fortnight I had returned to Torquay with a nearly completed manuscript.
I threw on a tweed skirt and a plain blouse and laced up my old brown brogues before grabbing a scarf, my notebook, and a Burberry gabardine coat from the hook on the back of the door. It was the outfit I always wore to walk my dog, Peter. How I missed him. I told myself that it would not be long before I saw him, before I could pick him up and push my head into his wiry fur.
The house was mostly silent and I was relieved not to meet anyone on the way out. Instead of taking the path that led to the moor where Robin Kinmuir had died, I chose the one that went up to the ruined castle behind the house. The mist had not yet cleared from the sea loch, and even though it was August, the early morning air was still cold. I pushed my hands into the pockets of the coat and, with my head bowed, slowly walked up the hill. Although I took a few deep breaths and tried to clear my head, worries about what I would say to Davison clouded my mind. What reason would I give for leaving? Would I be letting him down? I reasoned that perhaps he would find my absence something of a blessing. He would not be hindered or held back and could make greater progress without me. I thought of Miss Passerini locked away in that jail in Portree. Didn’t I owe her anything? Surely the inspector and Davison together would work out whether she was guilty or innocent?
And what of poor old Mrs. Kinmuir? The memory of the elderly lady, blind and senile, up in that attic room reciting nursery rhymes to herself, brought tears to my eyes. Yes, the nursery rhymes. What was I to make of those—that one in particular, “Who Killed Cock Robin?”? I told myself that there was little point wasting mental energy on the case, as I would no longer be working on it. I would soon be a married woman. I would be on my honeymoon. I was about to begin a new life.
Yet my thoughts kept returning to the murders at Dallach Lodge. Surely, it couldn’t have been a coincidence that the victim was called Robin and his killer, according to the rhyme, was the sparrow, Miss Passerini? And then there was the line quoted by Mrs. Kinmuir—“I saw him die”—before she herself was murdered. The words from the rhyme echoed through my brain in a seemingly never-ending cycle. But I couldn’t make sense of them. Sparrow, bow and arrow, die, fly, blood, fish, dish, shroud, beetle, needle, grave, owl, shovel, parson, rook, book, clerk, lark, dark, link, linnet, minute, mourner, dove, coffin, kite, night, pall, wren, hen, psalm, bell, bull, air, a-sobbing, toll.
As I came closer to the castle I spoke some of the lines out loud, just as I would when plotting one of my own books. Although all the other birds and creatures—the fly, the fish, the beetle, the owl, the rook, the lark, the linnet, the dove, the kite, the wren, the thrush, and the bull—knew that the sparrow had killed Cock Robin, none of them seemed to condemn the act. Instead, they all came together in a kind of theatrical performance of mourning, each taking a role. What if the same thing had happened here? Some of the guests—certainly Mr. Peterson, the Frith-Stratton sisters, and most probably Miss Passerini—had received a letter inviting them to the lodge to witness the punishment of Robin Kinmuir. Or at least they said they had received a letter. What if the whole thing was some kind of charade? Could the murder be staged to look like one thing when it was another altogether? Or instead of one murderer, could we have…?
Just then, as I was walking underneath an archway, I heard something shift above me. I looked up, and as I did so a large block of stone hurtled down towards me. I threw myself backwards. I felt a rush of air across my face as the piece of stone, spotted with yellow lichen, crashed into the ground by my feet, crushing a few wildflowers and spraying spots of dark soil over my skirt. Catching my breath, I struggled to my feet. My hands were stinging, and it felt as if I had pulled a muscle in my back, but otherwise I was unhurt. I strained my neck to look up at the archway, and as I did so, I caught a quick movement, the mere glimpse of someone—a fragment of an arm—as they disappeared. I spun on my heels and ran as fast as I could in their direction.
“Stop!” I shouted.
Within a minute or so I was out of breath, but I followed the sound of footsteps and the rustle of ferns. With each renewed spurt of effort I kept hoping to catch sight of the person who, it seemed, had tried to kill me. The thought threatened to unsteady me, but the rush of adrenaline through my body spurred me on. I ran through the shell of the castle, passing the remains of what had been an elaborate staircase and through to what looked like an old chapel. There was no sign of divine worship here; the place of spiritual contemplation had been reduced to a few broken stones.
I stopped and listened for any sign of movement. All I could hear was the distant sound of gulls and the quick rise and fall of my own breath. But then I heard the gentle cascade of falling stones. I took another deep breath and set off running. I was convinced that if I turned the corner I would catch my would-be assailant. Then, as I ran over a pile of rocks covered over with a clutch of weeds, I tripped. I stretched out my hands to break my fall, but as I came crashing down I felt a sharp pain in my right wrist. Something warm and wet trickled down my cheek. I lay there for a few minutes as I recovered my breath and tried to isolate the pain. There was something wrong with my right hand. I wriggled my fingers and a shooting, stabbing sensation shot up my arm. I did it again. It was painful but possible to move my fingers. At least I would be able to write.
I sat up, feeling nauseous. I lifted my fingers to my scalp and brought them back into focus—enough to see that they were covered in a red sheen. I was bleeding from my head. I knew I was vulnerable. I listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. My eyes scanned the grounds of the ruined castle. Like a hunted animal my breathing was quick and shallow. I could easily be finished off here, my head crushed with a rock, my neck squeezed and strangled by a pair of strong and determined hands. I tried to stand but felt dizzy, and my vision began to blur. But I had to move from this place. With legs that felt as if they were melting beneath me, I took one small step. I felt the metallic taste of blood on my lips. The periphery of my vision began to darken. I tried to steady myself, but it was no use. I fell back onto the ground as a cold shroud of darkness enveloped me.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I wasn’t sure how long I lay there before I opened my eyes again. At first I saw a world of fragments. A patch of bare soil. A black rock. The etiolated stems of a few weeds. Then I remembered what had happened. Fear clutched at my throat. I tried to push myself up, but as I did so I heard the soft tread of footsteps. I couldn’t speak. I dared not cry out for help in case I attracted the attention of the person who had tried to kill me. I tried to lie as still as a corpse.
The footsteps quickened. Someone was rushing towards me.
“Oh, my goodness, Mrs. Christie!”
It was a man’s voice. I tried to shrink away from the world, folding myself inwards as if to protect myself. But of course this childlike attempt at invisibility was no use.
“What happened to you?”
It was Mr. Peterson. He knelt down by me and stretched out a hand, but I didn’t take it. Even though I had only just recovered consciousness, I remembered how he had s
uggested I take a walk up to the castle. And I knew that he blamed me for exposing the business of the letters.
“Let me help you get back to the lodge,” he said.
I did not answer him.
As he leant closer I felt his breath on my face. I began to tremble with fear, but I had to remain strong.
“Oh, my, you’re bleeding,” he said. “From a cut to your head.”
He took out a white handkerchief and delicately pressed it onto my forehead. “Here, that should do it. Now, there’s no need to panic. If you take my arm, I will make sure you get back safely to the lodge, where we can get you looked at. Did you fall?”
I nodded my head like a little girl. I looked into his face. His expression seemed to be one of genuine concern. But could I trust him? After all, he had been the first one on the scene. How did I know that he had not been waiting for me to awaken? Yet surely, if he had wanted to kill me, he could have finished me off as I lay there unconscious. All he would have had to do was take up another rock and smash it down hard on my head. I would have known nothing more about it. But here he was helping me to my feet. It was time to test his reactions.
“Don’t be alarmed, but I think someone tried to kill me,” I said.
He looked at me as if I had uttered a sentence in a foreign language that he had not heard since a schoolboy.
“What?”
“Yes, here. In the castle. Under one of the archways. A block of stone came crashing down. I managed to throw myself out of its path just in time.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?”
“I’m quite sure. Someone ran from the scene after it happened.”
“Did you see you who it was?”
“I’m not certain,” I said. “Did you happen to see anyone?”
“No, I didn’t, but we need to make the inspector aware of this.”
I looked at Mr. Peterson in an imploring manner. “Would you mind awfully if we kept this just between ourselves?”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to cause a fuss,” I said.
“But if what you say is true, then your life is in danger. He may try again.”
I was struck by how he described my attacker as a man, not a woman.
“Well, that’s what I thought, too.”
This comment stopped him in his tracks. He released my arm for a moment and looked at me with surprise. “But you can’t be suggesting that you put yourself at risk? No, I’m afraid that would never do. I couldn’t allow it. I’m going to have to tell the inspector about what you told me.”
“If I promise to tell the inspector myself, will you in turn promise not to share what happened with any of the other guests?”
Mr. Peterson thought for a moment. Then he nodded. “But why would you want to keep it a secret?”
It was time to take another risk. “If I may speak plainly, Mr. Peterson…?”
“Yes, please do.”
“I’m right in thinking that you and Miss Passerini have become close since you both arrived at the lodge?”
“Well, yes, we’re on… friendly terms with one another.”
“And you wouldn’t want anything to happen to her?”
“No, of course not.”
“And you don’t think she is the one responsible for the murders in the house?”
“It’s ridiculous to think she could be anything but innocent.”
“You see, I believe someone wants to frame Miss Passerini for the crimes.”
“And what evidence do you have for this?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell him the truth, as I did not know how far I could trust him. So I kept my response vague. “As you suggest, she’s not the type of person who could do such a thing,” I said. “But if we are ever going to get to the bottom of this, and uncover who is the one behind the deaths of Mr. Kinmuir and his aunt, then certain things may have to be kept back from the rest of the guests.”
Mr. Peterson looked at me with a mix of surprise and respect. “Yes, I quite understand now. Of course. And you think by doing this we might be able to clear Miss Passerini’s name?”
“There’s a great deal that needs to be done before we can do that. But, yes, it’s a start.”
“I can see how you write your novels now.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got that kind of mind. You can see clearly into or through things. Oh, I’m not making myself clear. I’m not a very bookish or literary kind of man. I’m sure you can tell that. I’ve always been happier with columns of figures and the like. Goods coming in, goods going out. Import, export. Plus and minus. Those sorts of things.”
“Well, I take what you’ve said as a very high compliment indeed.”
Mr. Peterson smiled, pleased with my response. “And—as we’re speaking plainly—I’m sorry for all that nonsense about the letters,” he said. “You see, I didn’t know how much you knew about them.”
“I understand. There’s nothing to apologize for.”
Did I dare risk asking him more about Miss Passerini’s secret? I decided against it as to do so would open myself up to questions about the bad business deal between Robin Kinmuir and my father that I had invented.
We walked in silence down the track to the lodge, with Mr. Peterson supporting me as I went. Certainly he was gentle and attentive, holding my arm with just the right amount of pressure; there was nothing threatening or aggressive about him. But again I had to remind myself that this could be another performance. Perhaps he was hoping to ingratiate himself with me to find out just how much I knew. He could be using me, but then I suppose I was using him too, hoping to extract any nuggets of information that could help me piece together this dangerous puzzle.
Earlier that morning I had resolved to step away from the case. But now, as the pain throbbed through my head and the blood from the wound in my scalp began to dry in my hair, I realized that I could not do that. If someone had tried to kill me, that meant I was getting somewhere. I was close. It would be foolish to retreat now. However, that did not mean that I would continue to work with Davison once this was over. Nothing would change my mind about that.
As we approached the open door to the lodge, I saw Davison standing in the hall, reading a letter that had arrived in the morning post. As he caught sight of me he rushed out. I watched his expression change from the mask of impersonal impartiality that he wore on most occasions to something else entirely. In just a moment his eyes registered a range of emotions: horror and shock soon followed by a dark, brooding look of guilt and then something else, something that could only be described as deep affection.
“Agatha, oh, my dear, what happened?” He tried to stop his voice from breaking.
“Nothing; just a little fall, up by the castle,” I replied. “Mr. Peterson found me and very kindly helped me back down.”
“But you’re bleeding—from your head,” said Davison, looking from me to Mr. Peterson and back again as he tried to assess the situation.
“I used my handkerchief to stem the bleeding. I think it’s stopped now,” said Mr. Peterson.
“I was very silly,” I said. “I was looking out at the beauty of the sea loch and caught my foot on a piece of broken flagstone or an old root or something and came crashing down. I must have bumped my head as I fell.”
Davison looked with distrust at Mr. Peterson.
“Thankfully, when I came to, Mr. Peterson was right there,” I continued.
“You mean you were… you were out cold? Unconscious?”
“Yes, but only for a moment or so, I’m sure,” I said. I looked at Mr. Peterson and nodded, a sign for him to tell his side of the story.
“I came across Mrs. Christie lying on the ground,” said Mr. Peterson. “Obviously, I did what any gentleman would do and accompanied her back to the house.”
“He’s being far too modest,” I said. “In fact, I don’t know what I would have done without him.”
Davison knew there was more t
o the story. “Well, I think we need to get you examined by Dr. Fitzpatrick. He’s just back from Mrs. Kinmuir’s postmortem. In the meantime, let’s get you up to bed.” He reached out for me, and as he did so, I felt the soft touch of fingers on my wrist. It was the touch of a friend, the dearest friend in the world.
I thanked Mr. Peterson once more before Davison and I retreated upstairs, managing to escape to my room without anyone seeing us. As soon as the door was closed, Davison rushed towards me like a father intent on examining an injured child. He sat me down on the bed and checked the wound on my head.
Before he started asking me questions, I told him I was sorry for what I had said while reading the notebook. It had been meant as a joke, nothing more. In turn, Davison apologized for the way he had reacted and for coming across as a prig. We laughed at our own stupidity, a form of necessary light relief before we got down to the darker matter in hand.
“So what really happened up there?” he asked as he sat down besides me.
“Someone made an attempt on my life,” I said.
All traces of humor melted from his face. “How?”
“I was walking in the old castle’s grounds when all of a sudden a block of stone came crashing down. I managed to push myself out of its path. As I did so I looked up and… and caught a glimpse of someone running away.”
“Do you have any idea who it could have been?”
“I pursued them, but they were too quick for me. As I was running I fell and hit my head. As I said, when I came to, Mr. Peterson was standing over me.”
“Do you think it could have been him?”
“That was my first thought. But if it was him, he had plenty of opportunity to finish me off. I was an easy target.”
“Yes, I can see that. But who else could it have been? The only person we can rule out is Miss Passerini, who remains in custody in Portree. Did you get the impression that it was a man or a woman?”
I Saw Him Die Page 18
