“It could have been either,” I said. “But it was someone who could run fast. As you know, I’m not much of a sprinter.”
“But why would they want to kill you? What is it they think you know?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to work out,” I said.
“Have you seen something or heard anything at all since you’ve been here that casts suspicion on one particular person?”
“I may have done, but it could have struck me as insignificant at the time.” I thought back over all the events that had occurred at Dallach Lodge since I arrived. As I did so I tried to tease out meaning from even the most seemingly banal encounters and trivial conversations. “Let’s assume that everyone has something to hide,” I said. “We know—or we think we know—why Mr. Peterson and the Frith-Strattons are here. Mrs. Buchanan claims she never had a letter. But what about the others? Has Rufus Phillips got a hidden agenda? The servants? Simkins? And what about the cook? Even the doctor.”
“Fitzpatrick?”
“We have to assume the very worst of everyone, I’m afraid,” I said. As I uttered the words I was struck by how strange they sounded, as if they were being spoken by a character in one of my books. The image of Plato’s cave came back to me, and for a moment I felt so dizzy, I was afraid I might pass out.
“You need to lie down,” said Davison.
“No, I’m sure I will be all right. Could I have a glass of water, please?”
Davison stood up, poured some water, and then went to open the window.
After taking a few sips and feeling the fresh air on my face, I felt a little better. “We also need to find out about Miss Passerini’s background and why she came to Skye,” I said as I tried to breathe deeply. “Do you think it would be possible for me to go and see her?”
“I would have thought the inspector would cooperate,” said Davison. “There’s no reason why he—”
Just then an almighty knocking shook the door. “Mrs. Christie! Are you in there?” Another loud knock. “Mrs. Christie!”
Davison walked across the room to open the door.
Mr. Peterson stood there, looking desperate. “Hello, Davison, Mrs. Christie,” he said as he tried to compose himself. “Inspector Hawkins has telephoned the house. It’s awful. Just terrible news. Hawkins has charged Miss Passerini with murder!”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mr. Peterson’s shock and grief soon turned into anger—anger directed at me. “If it hadn’t been for you, none of this would have happened,” he said. There was repressed rage in his voice, and his eyes took on a desperate look. “You had me fooled for a moment, back there up at the ruined castle. I pitied you. I thought you were another victim, lying prostrate on the ground. How could I have been so stupid?”
“Mr. Peterson, what are you saying? Please consider yourself,” said Davison.
“Pretending that you had just been attacked!” He said the words with disgust, almost as if he had been forced to taste something foul. “No wonder you didn’t want to tell the inspector what had happened to you—because it was not true. And I fell for it! I actually began to trust you! But all the while you’ve been plotting and scheming, just like one of the killers in your books.”
“Peterson, pull yourself together,” said Davison in his best regimental voice. “And close that blasted door!”
“Why should I close the door?” he replied. “Unless you’ve both got something to hide. What I want to know is what did Vivienne ever do to you? Why did you choose her to take the blame for all of this? Those things you said to the inspector to make him suspect her—I was there; I heard you. And then there are all the things I’m sure you must have said to him when I wasn’t listening.”
“Mr. Peterson, I can promise you that I sincerely regret saying anything that led the inspector to suspect Miss Passerini of the killings,” I said. “In fact, I—”
But Peterson cut me off. “You know what? I don’t believe a word of what you say.”
“Please, Peterson,” said Davison. “Have some decency.”
“Decency?” he replied, his voice rising. “Neither of you know the meaning of the word.”
“If you would let me speak,” I said, barely managing to make myself heard above Mr. Peterson’s tirade. “I was about to say that—”
“Why should I listen to anything you have to say?” He stopped talking for a moment and looked at me with distrust, if not downright hatred. “After all, I know what you’re both doing here.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, trying not to panic.
“You’re one of them,” he said, spitting the last word out. “Like my father… like Kinmuir.”
I tried to feign a look of astonishment. “I’m at a loss to know what you’re saying.”
“Bloody secret agents! Working for the same bunch of upper-class crooks who let my father be sacrificed!”
How did he know? Had he overheard us talking? Of course! He must have looked through the pockets of my Burberry overcoat as I lay on the ground up there at the castle. I had been carrying a notebook with me in which I had written down some details of the case, together with Davison’s observations. He must have read my comments and worked out the rest for himself.
I tried to speak—so did Davison—but Mr. Peterson shouted us down. “I know how the SIS protects itself, how its members fool each other into thinking what they are doing is for the good of the country. But what about the good of the individuals? You don’t worry about those, do you? Men like my father are just expendable to people like you. It makes me sick.”
Davison grasped Mr. Peterson by his lapels and manhandled him into the room, slamming the door behind him.
“Why don’t we talk about this in a civilized manner?” said Davison.
“I’ve got your attention now, haven’t I?” cried Mr. Peterson, emboldened with newfound confidence. “Want to shut me up? Worried that your cover is about to be blown?”
How could we silence him? I suspected Davison was thinking the same thing, no doubt imagining violent scenarios including a quick bosh over the head or a scarf shoved into his mouth. But first I thought I should try another, more subtle tactic.
I moved over to him and whispered, “Yes, you’re right. Now, if you ever want to save the life of Miss Passerini, I suggest you do what I say. Surely you don’t want her to hang.”
The power of the last word silenced him and he looked astonished, almost as if I had injected a quick-acting potion into his system that made him listen.
“There is a killer in this house, one who has struck twice,” I continued, still in a whisper. “And Miss Passerini—Vivienne—will be the next victim if you don’t listen to what I have to say.”
I had his attention. “Now, what I suggest is this: you come along quietly to Mr. Davison’s suite—it’s a larger room, more comfortable than here—and we’ll outline what we have discovered and what we can do to try to save Miss Passerini’s life.”
“How do I know you’re not just spinning one of your stories?” Mr. Peterson asked. “How do I know you’re not lying?” There was a look of a young boy about him as he said this, as if he had been suddenly cast back to his childhood, a boy surrounded by a sea of adult faces, none of whom he could trust.
“If you’d let Mrs. Christie explain, I’m sure you’d believe her,” countered Davison. “Now, why don’t we retire to my room where we can have a… more civil conversation?”
Mr. Peterson looked from Davison to me, searching our faces for traces of deceit. Finally, after a moment’s silent contemplation, he nodded his head. I retrieved my handbag and made sure I locked the door behind me before we filed into Davison’s room. There was an air of ridiculous formality as Davison did his best to make Mr. Peterson feel welcome. Davison himself was not quite sure what I was going to say. To be perfectly honest, I was far from certain myself. I knew I had to try to placate Mr. Peterson; after all, he could be useful to me. But I did not know how much I could trust him. H
e might still be the one who had tried to kill me up there in the grounds of the ruined castle.
“Would you like a drink? There’s whisky and water,” Davison said as he gestured for Mr. Peterson to sit in an armchair.
Mr. Peterson refused, both the offer of refreshment and the seat. “I think you’d better just say what you’ve got to say,” he replied before he realized how blunt that sounded. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you must know I care very much for Miss Passerini’s welfare and I can’t stand the thought of her in that stinking, rotting cell in Portree.”
“Yes, I understand,” I said. “And I know how much Miss Passerini’s confinement must pain you. Now, I’ll get straight to the point, as we do not have any time to waste. Yes, I am here on behalf of His Majesty’s government, as is Mr. Davison. And I must congratulate you on your ingenuity.”
Mr. Peterson seemed pleased with his own cleverness and said, “I know what you lot did to my father, disposing of him as if he were a piece of rubbish. And I won’t have you do the same thing to Vivienne. I’ve seen the way you work. Sacrificial victims. Innocent people’s lives ruined. All done in the name of king and country. I won’t have it, I tell you, I won’t!”
“We know how much you value Miss Passerini’s life and I can assure you that we do, too,” I said. “Which is why we are doing everything in our power to try to find out who is the real killer. You see, the person or persons behind this have been very clever—or I should say he or she believes they have been clever. But not quite clever enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“You must trust me, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you everything at the moment,” I said with a confidence I did not feel. Indeed, there were great holes in my knowledge of what had happened at the lodge. I did not know whether I would be able to fill them in, but I was determined to try. “I must admit I was suspicious of Miss Passerini mainly because she lied. Do you remember where she said she had recently returned from?”
“Yes… yes, I do. It was Berlin,” said Mr. Peterson.
“That’s right. But, according to the stamp in her passport, she had recently been not in Berlin but South America.”
Distrust crept back into his voice. “But how do you know about the stamps in her passport?”
I had to think quickly. Although he knew my true purpose at Dallach Lodge, I did not want to tell him that I had stolen into the young woman’s room in order to search through her possessions, in case it made him even more angry. “Oh, there was a silly mix-up on the day I arrived, and Miss Passerini’s passport—which she had deposited with Mr. Kinmuir’s office for safekeeping—was sent up to my room by mistake,” I said. “Curiosity got the better of me and I opened it, I’m afraid. As I flicked through it I noticed the lovely stamps of those far-off countries that Miss Passerini had recently visited: Argentina, Venezuela, and Uruguay. It was rather naughty of me to glance through it, but it was done entirely innocently. Of course, I sent it back down to the butler with a note to say that it belonged to Miss Passerini.”
“So she could have brought back the curare from there,” said Mr. Peterson. His face looked white. “But why would she lie?”
“That’s something we need to examine in greater detail,” I said.
“So that’s why Hawkins thinks Miss Passerini might be guilty—because she’s been to South America?”
“One of the reasons, yes, and I take responsibility for passing that information on to the inspector,” I said. “But since then I have come across other things that have led me to question certain assumptions.”
“Such as?” he asked.
I looked at Davison. I could tell from the flicker of doubt that shadowed his gray eyes that he was willing me not to reveal much more. Although I had never been much of a poker player—my taste was for gentler games such as bridge and patience, rather like the late Mrs. Kinmuir—there was an analogy here, and I tried to keep my expression as blank as possible. I knew one should never put all of one’s cards on the table until the very end of the game.
“I can’t tell you much more because to do so would be to put you at risk,” I said.
“At risk?” Mr. Peterson said with an unmistakable sneer. “I don’t think anyone will dare try anything with me.”
“You’ve forgotten that two people have been murdered in this house,” said Davison. “And someone made an attempt on Mrs. Christie’s life, too.”
“And Miss Passerini is in a cell in Portree, lined up and ready to be the next victim,” I added. “If you want to try to stop that, then you could help us. If you’d rather let the murderer get away with this—and kill Vivienne in the process—then so be it. It’s up to you.”
Mr. Peterson considered this for a moment. Then he turned to me. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“I’m afraid you can’t be certain,” I said. I hoped my brutal honesty would convince him more than any elaborate parcel fashioned from silken words. “You just have to do what you think is right, for yourself and for Miss Passerini.”
The conversation stood on a knife edge. If I had convinced him, then there was a good chance that he would comply, at least for the short term. If I had not won his trust, then there was a risk he would run out of the room and shout our real purpose to the rest of the house, and our cover would be blown. My mouth felt dry and tasted sour. My heart beat with such an intensity, I could almost hear the blood drumming through my brain.
Mr. Peterson stood before us full of swagger. He looked at us not as two individuals but as symbols of everything he hated: a system that had taken his father away from him. And I knew then, in that instant, that we had lost.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just don’t believe you’ve got Miss Passerini’s best interests at heart.”
As he turned from us and started to move towards the door, I felt my breath being punched out of me. There was nothing left. As soon as our true identities were exposed, the murderer would win. We would have to leave the house and return to our lives, while Miss Passerini would go to the gallows, sentenced to die for a crime she did not commit. The defeat would represent not only a personal disappointment but a moral failure, too. Evil was being allowed to triumph. The realization made me feel weak and sick.
Just as Mr. Peterson turned the handle on the door, Davison cleared his throat. “Not so fast, Mr. Peterson,” he said.
“I don’t think there’s anything you’ve got to say that requires my attention here,” Mr. Peterson replied, opening the door.
“Or perhaps you’d rather I address you as Mr. Kellaway?”
Mr. Peterson did not move as Davison continued. “Or should that be Mr. Finlayson? Or Mr. Houghton? Or what about Mr. Yewtree? You have used so many names in the past.”
Mr. Peterson turned and quickly shut the door. “What’s it to you?”
“It wouldn’t mean anything to me were it not for the fact that we have something in common,” said Davison.
“We do?” Mr. Peterson tried to remain calm, but there was something about the way his eyes darted around the room that indicated he was anything but calm. At that moment, whatever handsome qualities he once had seemed to melt away and he took on the look of a cornered rat.
“You may as well admit it, Peterson,” said Davison. “You used to work for the SIS yourself.”
“How absurd!” said Mr. Peterson, laughing. “I may have used a few aliases in my past; that’s all part of business. The import-export trade being what it is, from time to time one has to change—”
Davison took a letter out of his pocket. It must have been the one I had seen him reading when I returned to the lodge earlier that morning. “I have here—written in code, of course—a list of all the missions you’ve worked on, together with the specific dates and the number of men you killed during the course of your career. Quite impressive. It shows you have—or at least had—a certain talent for this particular sort of work.”
Mr. Peterson did not respond.
“I wond
er what your real intention was, though. With your SIS training and very real knowledge, you certainly would have had access to poisons such as curare. And, of course, you did have a very real motive for murdering Robin Kinmuir. You blamed him for the death of your father, himself an SIS agent.”
“But you must know that’s nonsense,” said Mr. Peterson. “Why would I tell you about the connection between my father and Kinmuir if I had actually killed him? That would have been foolhardy beyond belief.”
“You know as well as I do how bluff, double bluff, and triple bluff work,” said Davison. “Honesty can often act as a smoke screen to conceal a greater deception.”
“But you must know I am innocent,” said Mr. Peterson.
“I’m afraid I don’t know any such thing,” replied Davison. “You had the motive and the means for the murder of Robin Kinmuir. What did you do? Did you steal into his rooms and smear a little of the curare on his shaving brush? It would have been easy to do. In and out. Kinmuir was none the wiser until he went out on his walk. And what about Mrs. Kinmuir, the old lady? What did she know? Had Mr. Kinmuir said something to her before his death that pointed to you as the killer? And it is interesting how you just happened to be up by the castle earlier today when Mrs. Christie was attacked.”
“It’s all nonsense—nonsense, I tell you!” shouted Mr. Peterson. “You’re not going to pin this on me. I’d rather—”
“What? You’d rather Miss Passerini took the blame and is hanged for the crime?”
“No, I didn’t say that. I just meant that—”
Davison did not let him finish his sentence. “The records here show that you seem to have a particular ability of snuffing out Bolsheviks, breaking up communist plots, and that sort of thing. Yes, that would make very interesting reading for Miss Passerini.”
“You don’t mean—”
“I don’t mean what? That I won’t tell Vivienne Passerini the truth about your past? Of course I will. What do you take me for? I’m sure if you were in my position, that is exactly what you would do, too.”
I Saw Him Die Page 19
