I Saw Him Die

by Andrew Wilson

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking,” I said. “Now that he’s alone in his room and doing his paperwork.”

  I took Mrs. Buchanan’s letter from my handbag and the accompanying photograph and studied them. We talked about the best strategy to employ and the various ways in which the scene with the doctor might play itself out. As Davison walked ahead of me up the stairs and along the corridor towards the east wing of the house, I felt fear course through my body. My mouth was dry, my skin cold. If indeed Dr. Fitzpatrick was a murderer, he might well turn on us. He could have supplies of poison in his room. Yet Davison had assured me that he had a few tricks of his own.

  At the door Davison turned to me and nodded. There was a confidence in his gray eyes that I sorely lacked. Was it too late to turn around and retreat to the relative safety of our rooms? Then Davison’s hand stretched forwards and he knocked on the door.

  “Dr. Fitzpatrick?”

  “Yes?” said the doctor’s voice. “What is it?”

  “It’s Davison here. I wondered if I could talk to you.”

  A moment later the door opened and the doctor’s jovial face beamed out at us. “Of course,” he said. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Christie. Please, why don’t you both come in? Forgive the mess on the desk. What with everything that has been going on, I rather neglected my reports. Just trying to catch up.”

  “Thank you,” said Davison as we stepped into the room.

  I noticed that the doctor’s breath smelt of alcohol. On the desk, by a mound of papers, was a large cut-glass tumbler of whisky.

  “You both look rather serious,” he said. “Please don’t tell me there’s been another murder. The death toll at Dallach Lodge is already high enough, don’t you think?”

  The joke fell flat.

  “Sorry, that wasn’t in the best of taste,” he said. “Anyway, come in. I can only offer one of you a seat, I’m afraid. As you can see, I have one of the smallest rooms in the house. Not that I’m complaining, of course. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Davison cleared his throat. “It’s a slightly delicate matter relating to my cousin, Agatha.”

  “Is something the matter, my dear?” he said, turning to me. Certainly, as he looked at me with his kind eyes, he appeared the very image of a caring doctor with a comforting bedside manner. “How is your head? I hope you’ve had no more trouble since your nasty fall.”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “I’m not sure whether it’s due to the fall, but I have been experiencing a number of strange symptoms.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick. “Would you like me to take a look?”

  “Yes, that would be very kind,” I said. I cast my eyes over the pile of paper on his desk. “As long as I’m not disturbing you.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Now, why don’t we ask your cousin to leave us for a few minutes so that I—”

  The idea of being alone with the doctor unsettled me. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather John stayed with me,” I said. “It’s just that, since the fall, I’ve been feeling rather fragile.” I brought out a handkerchief and started to twist it through my fingers.

  “Of course,” said the doctor. “It’s understandable if, after all the terrible events that have happened, you’re feeling a little on edge. Why don’t you take a seat here,” he said, pointing to the chair by the desk.

  That would never do; we needed to get to the notes on his desk without him seeing. I had to think quickly. “Oh, John, it’s happening again,” I said. I pretended to faint. “It’s the dizziness; it’s come back.”

  “Here,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick as he took my arm. “Mr. Davison, if you could take your cousin’s other arm… Why don’t we move her over here?”

  The two men gently guided me to the bed. “If you could put your head between your knees,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick as his hand touched the back of my neck. “Yes, that’s right, and now take some deep breaths. That should help. How often has she been suffering these dizzy spells?” he asked Davison.

  “Every hour or so, I think,” said Davison. “She also complains of strange patterns in front of her eyes. Flashing lights. And blinding headaches.”

  “That’s odd,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick. “When I first examined her, she didn’t say anything about these symptoms.”

  “She didn’t want to make a fuss,” said Davison. “Even as a small girl she was taught that she should never complain. So the very fact that she is complaining about this… well, it must mean it’s quite serious, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I can see your point,” said the doctor. “Let’s have a look at her.”

  He checked the wound on my head and the state of my wrist, nodding in satisfaction as he did so. Then he walked over to his desk, reached down for his medical bag, and took out his stethoscope.

  “If I could ask you to loosen your blouse…,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick as he returned to the bed.

  I took a slight intake of breath as the doctor pressed the metal circle of his stethoscope onto my chest. I smelt the peaty aroma of malt whisky on his breath. As he listened to my heartbeat—a beat I knew to be racing—a concerned expression spread across his face.

  “And now your pulse,” he said. He took my left arm and felt for the underside of my wrist. As he was taking my pulse, Davison began to edge his way closer to Dr. Fitzpatrick’s desk. I looked away and tried to concentrate on the tartan pattern of the blanket at the end of the bed. The thought that Davison might be discovered at any moment meant that my breaths were shallower and quicker than usual. As Davison reached out and took hold of a letter, I was aware of the doctor turning his head over his right shoulder. I felt panic flow through my body like a current of electricity.

  “Yes, I can tell your heartbeat is higher than it should be,” he said. “Perhaps I should take your blood pressure. If it’s high, then that could manifest itself in bad headaches, tiredness, and vision problems, too. Now, where did I put that—”

  Just at that moment, before the doctor had a full view of what was happening, Davison thrust a letter into his pocket.

  “I think it’s over on the desk,” he said as he moved away from me. “Sorry for the mess. As I said, my paperwork has suffered since… since Robin was murdered.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Davison, whose expression hadn’t changed. He looked as guileless and composed as ever. If only I could learn some of his techniques, I was sure I would be much better at this kind of subterfuge. When this was all over, I would ask him if he could teach me a few of his tricks. Then I remembered there would be no next time.

  As Dr. Fitzpatrick busied about with the blood pressure contraption, strapping the cuff around my arm and intoning about the possible causes of my symptoms, I told myself that I felt relieved that I had come to a decision about my future. I would be a married woman, as simple as that. Of course, I would carry on with my writing. I would need to in order to supplement Max’s income; I knew that archaeologists were not paid a great deal. But soon I would be on honeymoon with Max in Venice. The thought of my husband-to-be made my body ache. What I wouldn’t do to see his handsome face. I remembered the way he touched my cheek, my neck, my shoulder… I had to stop myself from thinking of him; otherwise it would drive me quite mad. But the idea that soon we would arrive in Venice! Yes, I would think of that instead.

  I couldn’t wait to see the sights of the floating city in the Adriatic. I recalled some of the images I had seen in books. The wine-dark lagoon. Santa Maria della Salute. The cemetery of Isola di San Michele; I had read that bodies were carried to the island on special funerary gondolas. And then there were museums like the Museo Correr and the Gallerie dell’Accademia, with its exquisite collection of paintings by those Renaissance masters which Max was so keen to see. I recited their names silently to myself: Bellini, Titian, Tintoretto, Giorgione…

  “Mrs. Christie? Mrs. Christie?” The doctor’s voice roused me from my reverie.

  “Sorry, I must have been da
ydreaming,” I replied.

  “Your blood pressure does seem to be a little on the high side, but not dangerously so,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick. “So what I would recommend is when you get home…”

  Davison cleared his throat and took out the letter and photograph that I had stolen from Mrs. Buchanan’s room, together with the sample of handwriting that he had taken from Dr. Fitzpatrick’s desk. He had told me that our mission was simply to secure a document from Dr. Fitzpatrick, handwriting which we could then compare to the stolen letter. What was he doing? I wondered.

  “Now, please don’t agitate yourself, Mrs. Christie,” said the doctor.

  “I wonder if we could have a word?” Davison asked with the kind of polite air that a gentleman might use when soliciting a stranger for directions.

  “Yes, I think she’ll be all right in the long run,” said Fitzpatrick. “Probably nerves. Not surprising, after everything that’s gone on here. A terrible business, it really—”

  At this, he turned to see Davison standing in front of the desk, holding the letters.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said the doctor.

  “Perhaps you’d like to sit down, Doctor,” said Davison, gesturing to the chair by the desk. “After all, we wouldn’t want you to collapse from the shock.”

  “What do you mean? I’m afraid I’m at a loss to know what—”

  “Let me enlighten you,” said Davison.

  I gave him a look of warning: Did he really want to do this now?

  I watched the doctor’s reaction as he realized exactly what Davison held in his hands. The strength seemed to seep out of his body, and it took everything in his power to guide himself into the chair.

  “I suspect you know what it is I’ve got here,” said Davison, brandishing the letter and photograph I had taken from Mrs. Buchanan.

  “It’s not what you think,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick.

  “Isn’t it? Well, perhaps you’d like to explain, in that case.” There was a cruel edge to Davison’s voice now. “You see, to me this letter reads like a plan to commit a murder.”

  Dr. Fitzpatrick slumped forwards in the chair and held his bald head in his hands. He did not say anything for a while, and the atmosphere in the room seemed to get heavier and more oppressive. The doctor sighed, looked up at us like a sick dog, and opened his mouth to speak.

  “In a way, this has come as something of a blessed relief,” he said, more to himself than to us. “Yes, after all these years of dreading this moment, now it feels… well, it feels like I can finally be free.”

  “Free?” I asked.

  “Yes, free of her.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Davison. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Of that b—” He stopped himself. “Eliza! I’m talking about Mrs. Buchanan, of course.”

  My brain tried to make sense of the fragments of information. What was he implying? That it was she who was responsible for the murders at Dallach Lodge? What kind of hold had she over him? Had she forced him to do the killing?

  “Why don’t you tell us from the beginning?” Davison advised in a quiet and reassuring voice. “Get it off your chest.”

  Dr. Fitzpatrick blinked and gazed at us as if seeing us for the first time.

  “Who the hell are you, anyway?” he asked, steadying himself as he stood up. “And what right do you have to go around like this, asking questions and taking things from my desk?”

  What would Davison say? Would he tell him the truth?

  “Dr. Fitzpatrick, I am here at the behest of His Majesty’s Government,” said Davison. “That is all you need to know.”

  “I’m not standing for this. I’m going to tell the inspector that—”

  “What? That you planned a murder years ago? The only question is: Did you go through with it? Exactly how did you kill Catherine Kinmuir?” There was no response. “Now, I’d suggest you sit down. After all, this piece of evidence is unlikely to put you in a very good light, is it?”

  Davison held up the incriminating letter once more, an action which seemed to do the trick, as Dr. Fitzpatrick slumped back into the chair. In a cold and dispassionate voice, Davison began to read from the letter. “ ‘It’s the only way… I can’t think of anything else… I keep thinking of our life together when she is dead.’ ” He paused for dramatic effect, and also to let the doctor reflect on the significance of the words. “I’m right in thinking that this letter is written in your handwriting?”

  “Yes, but how did you get hold of it?” asked Dr. Fitzpatrick. “She always said she kept it in a bank vault.”

  “Perhaps this is a copy—but you wrote it to Mrs. Buchanan?” Davison pressed.

  “It’s not what you think. You see—”

  Davison cut him off. “You once held strong feelings for Mrs. Buchanan—feelings which perhaps you don’t hold today?”

  Dr. Fitzpatrick nodded. His face was pale now, like the skin of a dead man. He reached out for his tumbler and swallowed the last dregs of whisky.

  “It’s over,” mumbled the doctor. “Whatever I say, it makes no difference. I’m finished.”

  “You may not be,” said Davison. “I’m sure that if you tell us the truth, then we can help you.”

  There was no reply.

  “Dr. Fitzpatrick? What do you say?”

  The doctor looked steadfastly in front of him, like a horse fitted with blinkers so that it could see no other way but directly ahead.

  “And what of this photograph?” asked Davison.

  “I’m not saying another word,” whispered Dr. Fitzpatrick.

  Davison cast me a quick glance. What did he expect me to do? He hadn’t told me of his plan and I was not prepared. And so I had to think quickly.

  I took a deep breath and shifted my position on the bed so that I sat a little closer to the doctor. The conversations I had had with Mrs. Buchanan ran through my head. What was the best way to approach this? It was obvious that there was no love lost between him and the actress who had clearly once bewitched him. But what were his thoughts about Catherine?

  “If I may speak plainly, Dr. Fitzpatrick…?” I began, trying to make my voice as soft and as gentle as possible. “When we’re in love—well, it’s like we’re under the influence of a kind of spell, don’t you think? The world seems brighter somehow, the sky a keener shade of blue, the air fresher and more alive than ever. The only thing that matters is the person we love. All our attention is focused on that individual, and we will do anything they ask of us. I’m sure you can cast your mind back to a time when you felt like that?”

  The doctor’s eyes began to moisten. It seemed my message was getting through to him.

  “And if that person is as charismatic and as charming as Mrs. Buchanan, well, then—”

  “I wish I’d never set eyes on her,” he said.

  I sensed that Davison was willing me to extract some kind of confession out of him, but I knew this could not be rushed. One wrong remark and he would clam up again.

  “And then, once that person withdraws their love, well—and talking from my own experience—it can feel like being locked away in a cold, dark prison,” I said. “A life lived in the shadows, with no prospect of warmth or light or joy. But then another person comes along and the world seems brighter again.”

  The doctor turned to me and seemed to understand my meaning. He nodded his head and was about to speak when Davison took a step towards the desk and banged his hand down on the surface, sending the papers scattering onto the floor.

  “What the—” shouted Dr. Fitzpatrick, rising from his seat.

  “Davison!” I cried. “Really. We were on the point of—”

  “I don’t care about any of that,” he replied. “We haven’t got time for sentiment. Look, two people have been murdered in this house. I know what you wrote in that letter, Dr. Fitzpatrick. And it seems to me if you can plan one murder, then you’re certainly capable of planning another.”

  “You can’t believe
that I would kill Robin? And old Mrs. Kinmuir?”

  “We have evidence here that suggests you wanted Robin’s wife dead. You’re not denying it?”

  “No, but it wasn’t like that,” the doctor replied. “I’ve told you.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve told us nothing,” said Davison. There was a hardness in his eyes now, one I hadn’t seen before—an expression that frightened me. “If you don’t start to tell us what really happened, then I’m going to have to share this letter with some of my close friends in the press. You’ve got a nice little number going on here, up on this island. But it’s a closed community. Everyone knows one another. News travels fast. Imagine how fast it would travel if it became the subject of one of those Sunday newspaper spreads. A doctor who had an affair with his friend’s wife. The same doctor who then stole his friend’s mistress, the famous actress Eliza Buchanan. And if that weren’t enough, this pillar of the community—this respectable gentleman—then went on to plot a murder with the actress, the victim who happened to be—”

  “Enough!” shouted Dr. Fitzpatrick, choking back a sob. “I can’t bear it. I’ll tell you the truth. I’ll do anything you want. But please, please stop.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  In the space of a few hours the house became a vision of light. Lamps blazed, dozens of candles flickered like fireflies in the night, and the jewels worn by the women sparkled and glinted, brightening even the most pallid complexion. The diamond necklace that circled Mrs. Buchanan’s throat set off the dark beauty of her black silk gown. The Frith-Stratton sisters had chosen necklaces and bracelets fashioned from garnets, and as they moved, the light cast miniature bloodred shadows onto the pale skin of their necks and wrists.

  I wore the pearls and diamonds borrowed from my sister, which I paired with the trusty emerald-green evening dress, and even though Davison said I looked beautiful, I did not feel like it. Murder was not good for the complexion, I thought to myself as I checked my reflection in the looking glass before going down to join the party. I wore a wide green hairband to cover the cut on my head and applied a little more powder over the bruising. The anxieties of the last few weeks seemed to have etched new lines onto my face, and I thought there was something of a haunted look about me.