I Saw Him Die

by Andrew Wilson

  I was desperate for a long, proper holiday, and once again I dreamt of the time when I could enjoy my honeymoon with Max. As drinks were served in the drawing room I silently recited the words La Serenissima to myself and thought of Venice. The name conjured an image of a warm breeze playing over the Grand Canal, the waters lapping at the edge of St. Mark’s Square, a gondola floating across the lagoon.

  I was distracted from these thoughts by a conversation taking place by the windows.

  “It really is very kind of you to host this dinner, after… everything that’s happened,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick to James Kinmuir. The doctor was doing his best to behave normally, but our recent encounter with him had left him looking pale and distracted.

  “It’s the least I could do,” replied James. “Now that the real culprit of these awful crimes has been caught… well, it’s good to try to bring the whole thing to a close.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said the doctor, taking another swig of whisky. “It’s been dreadful. First to lose Robin like that, and then poor Mrs. Kinmuir.”

  “I know,” said James. “It was a terrible shock.”

  “And how will you cope when you have to sell the house?” asked Dr. Fitzpatrick. “What will you do?”

  James turned to his friend, Rufus Phillips, who was standing by him like his shadow. “Rufus has persuaded me to jack in my job at the school and travel to Italy.”

  “But will you have the funds?”

  James Kinmuir looked slightly taken aback by the directness of the doctor’s question.

  “Sorry to be so blunt; that was terribly rude of me,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick. “I’ve been a little out of sorts lately.”

  “No, not at all,” said James. “In fact, I’ve done the sums and it’s cheaper than living here. I hope to get another teaching position out in Italy. Tutor to the dim son of a wealthy Englishman, that kind of thing.”

  I thought I had better contribute to the conversation rather than remain an awkward, solitary figure, and so I edged forwards, took a sip of my soda water and said, “Perhaps I will see you there.”

  Again James seemed a little taken aback.

  “In Italy, I mean. I’m off there on my honeymoon. Venice,” I explained. “Where are you traveling to?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” said James. “It depends on when and where I get a position.”

  “I see. And of course your great-aunt was such a lover of that country, too. I remember Mrs. Buchanan told me that.”

  “Indeed she was,” said James, who looked down, no doubt to hide the tears that came into his eyes.

  “It all seems so very different to Scotland,” I said, glancing out of the window at the moonlight reflected in the dark sea loch. “I know there is an awful lot of water here, but just think: a floating city. The idea of Venice seems so magical, so unreal somehow.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said Rufus Phillips. “I think it’s my favorite place in the world.”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I would be so grateful if you could give me some advice about what to see and where to go,” I said.

  “I’d be delighted,” he said with a smile.

  He launched into the splendors of Venice with boyish enthusiasm. There was talk of the glories of the Ca’ d’Oro, the Scuola Grande di San Rocco, and I Frari; spider crabs, courgette flowers, squid ink, and dozens of ingredients I had never heard of, let alone tasted; passageways so narrow they never saw a ray of sunlight and hidden pockets of the city where few tourists ventured; and majestic Palladian villas situated on the Veneto which were so beautiful that they took one’s breath away.

  “Listening to you is like having a living Baedeker,” I said, a remark which made him laugh.

  “It’s good to hear the sound of laughter again in this house,” said the doctor. “Everything has been so morbid—understandably so. But at least we can put all of it behind us now.”

  He looked across the room to Eliza Buchanan, who had been trapped in conversation with the Frith-Stratton sisters.

  “Excuse me.” He placed his empty glass down on the table, reached across to a tray of drinks, and took two glasses of champagne, one for him and the other which he passed to Mrs. Buchanan.

  “Thank you, Jeremy,” she said. It was the first time I had heard her call him by his Christian name. The two turned away from the Frith-Strattons and started talking to one another, but in voices so low I couldn’t make out their words.

  Seeing that I was standing alone, Davison came over to join me.

  “Look at this painting over here. I don’t think I’ve looked at it properly before today.” Davison led me by the arm to an isolated spot on the opposite side of the room. As he pretended to study the landscape of the sublime Cuillin mountains, he lowered his voice. “I think it’s going to be an interesting evening. I think there’s a chance we’ll get to the truth.”

  “Do you think Mr. Peterson is comfortable with what he’s got to do?” I whispered.

  “No, I don’t think he’s comfortable at all, but he’s got no choice,” Davison replied so that only I could hear. “And he knows this is the last opportunity to try to save Vivienne Passerini from the gallows. After all, from tomorrow everyone will go their separate ways, and the killer, or killers, will be able to melt away into the shadows.”

  “It’s terribly brave of him,” I said.

  “Yes, it is, and I suppose it shows the real depth of feeling he has towards Miss Passerini.”

  I looked across the drawing room and took in the scene. Simkins entered with another tray of drinks, which he served to the men in their evening dress and the women in their jewels and gowns. As the conversation bubbled away—the talk was of travel plans, former and future holidays, and suchlike—it all looked so perfectly civilized, the very essence of respectability. Yet in the room there was at least one murderer, someone who had administered curare to Robin Kinmuir and who had then stabbed old Mrs. Kinmuir in the back of the neck with a paper knife. Was it Mrs. Buchanan, the actress who had had relationships with both the dead man and the doctor? Was it Dr. Fitzpatrick himself, who, despite his protestations of innocence, could have had a hand in the disappearance, if not murder, of Robin Kinmuir’s first wife? Was it Inspector Hawkins, who resented the fact that his ancestors had been forced from the land owned by the Kinmuirs, and who had framed Vivienne Passerini for the crime? Or was it someone else entirely?

  The room was heavy with secrets, poisoning the air like a toxic gas. But after tonight was over, Davison and I were confident that some of these secrets would be exposed. The only danger was that another person might die in the process.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Simkins sounded the gong calling us all to dinner. I held my handbag a little closer to me. Inside was everything I would need in order for me to complete my part in the forthcoming drama.

  I stepped into the dining room. Again the table was laid beautifully, with starched napkins, bone china so fine it was almost translucent, and exquisite cut glass. The light from the candles danced off the fine silverware. I knew the opulence to be a façade: every fork and knife, every wineglass and candlestick, would have to be sold to pay off Robin Kinmuir’s debts. As I walked past portraits of people who were now long dead—ruddy-faced men in kilts, lairds surrounded by stags hunted to their deaths, ladies dressed in their finery—I wondered what these ancestors had witnessed in this room over the years.

  I sat at the end of the long table, to the right of Simon Peterson. To his left was the ever-devoted Isabella Frith-Stratton, who, now that Miss Passerini was in a cell in Portree, thought she might have a chance at winning the affections of the handsome young man. Next to her sat Rufus Phillips and then Davison. On the other side of the table, opposite Davison, was James Kinmuir, and then on his left were May Frith-Stratton, Dr. Fitzpatrick, Eliza Buchanan, and Inspector Hawkins, who sat opposite me.

  As Simkins finished pouring the wine, James Kinmuir stood up and proposed a toast to thank the inspec
tor for his diligent work.

  “Little did I think that evil would ever visit this house, but this week it did,” he said. “I won’t talk anymore about the heinous crimes or…” He paused, no doubt thinking about the reason why many around the table had descended on the lodge. “Only that had it not been for the investigative skills of Inspector Hawkins, well, I’m not sure whether I would be standing before you today. So you see, I have a great deal to thank him for.” He raised his glass. “To the inspector!”

  I raised my glass of soda water as we all toasted the inspector, who smiled.

  “I suppose it’s not often that you see crimes of this nature on the island,” I said to Hawkins.

  “No, it’s most unusual and illustrates a very determined criminal mind,” he said.

  “I’m sure it must mean promotion for you now. Where will it be? Edinburgh? Glasgow?”

  “I don’t want to speak too soon, but I’ve always wanted to try my hand in London.”

  “I’m sure you would do very well there,” I said, even though I was rather taken aback by the scale of Hawkins’s ambitions. “Scotland Yard could do with more men like you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Christie,” he said.

  Mrs. Buchanan, who had caught the tail end of our conversation, turned to the inspector and told him that when he was in London he simply must look her up. There was a sparkle in her eye, the kind that served as a preamble to flirtation. I knew that Eliza Buchanan was an expert seductress. Was the inspector going to be her next conquest?

  “For my part, I cannot wait to get back to work,” she said. “I’ve got a busy winter and spring ahead. Another season of Shakespeare. Another Lady Macbeth. Goneril. Tamora. Yes, good, juicy roles.”

  I could have said something about the nature of those roles—namely, that these women were all monsters—but instead I asked, “Do you think you’ll ever return to Skye?”

  As I spoke I noticed that Dr. Fitzpatrick turned his head slightly and seemed to lose interest in what May Frith-Stratton was saying to him.

  “What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Buchanan. “That I might not return now that Robin is no longer here?”

  “Yes. I wondered whether the island still held any attraction for you?”

  Her reply was that of a politician. “I still have friends here and Skye will always hold a very special place in my heart,” she said. She looked as though she wanted to add something, but Simkins was at her shoulder, offering her the first course of vegetable consommé. She nodded her head and the butler proceeded to serve her.

  I noticed that Simkins’s hands were shaking. Had he been drinking again? Just then, as he ladled some more of the clear, amber-colored liquid into the bowl, a spot of it splashed onto Mrs. Buchanan’s gown.

  “Can’t you watch what you’re doing, you fool!” hissed Mrs. Buchanan with fire in her eyes. “Really. This gown was made in Paris, of the finest silk.”

  Simkins’s gloved hand reached for a starched napkin that was draped over his arm, but as he approached her she brushed it aside. “I’ll do it myself,” she snapped before she regulated the tone of her voice and began to speak in a more measured manner. “If you would be so kind as to bring me a bowl of iced water.”

  When Simkins left the room, she turned to the inspector. “I suspected he drank,” she said, “but it’s never been this bad. It really is intolerable. It’s as if he doesn’t care whether he keeps his job or not.”

  Simkins had seemed confident enough about his future when I encountered him in the kitchens; indeed, a little too confident. Of course, that could have been the drink talking, but I suspected it was something else. When I found a quiet moment I planned to question him. But what of the cook, Mrs. Baillie? And that poor girl, Rose Stewart, who had discovered the body of old Mrs. Kinmuir? Would she get another position? The tea stain might be worked out of the carpet, but what of the stain on Rose’s memory that lingered after she had discovered the body? That would be harder to erase. No doubt she would carry it with her throughout her life. I kept that thought in my mind as I opened my bag and took out a handkerchief. I pretended to use it to dab my eyes as I stole a look at Simon Peterson while he sipped a spoonful of consommé. From the opposite side of the table Dr. Fitzpatrick watched Mr. Peterson closely as he turned his head to talk to Isabella Frith-Stratton seated next to him.

  I looked across the room to the clock. It was a quarter past eight.

  Despite Mrs. Buchanan’s recent outburst, the room was full of laughter and smiles. Everyone now seemed relaxed and relatively happy, knowing that they could put the tragedies of the past week behind them. The guests were looking forward to leaving the lodge the next day. The light of the candles and the sparkle of the diamonds suggested an atmosphere of abundant joy. But all that was about to change in a moment.

  “Is something the matter, Mrs. Christie?” asked the inspector from across the table. He must have been watching me as I observed the rest of the group.

  “No, nothing at all,” I said, lifting my handkerchief to my face once more. “I felt something in my eye, but it’s gone now.”

  “I see,” said the inspector. “And will you use any of the events of the past week in one of your future novels?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “But if I do, I’ll be certain to disguise it a great deal. Don’t worry, I won’t use you as a character.”

  “I hope not!” he said, laughing. “What, may I ask, are you working on at the moment?”

  “I intend to have a little break from writing,” I said. “I might try a short story or two, or sketch out a play, perhaps. But as for novels, I’m going to have a few months off.”

  “Of course. You’re about to be married, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right,” I said. The thought of Max brought a slight blush to my cheek.

  “Well, I hope you have a very happy life together,” he said. “I know after I married—and, to be honest, I resisted for as long as possible—I felt like a different man. My wife, Lucy, she is the kind of—”

  I knew why he had stopped. The look of alarm in the inspector’s eyes told me that the sequence of events we had planned was about to begin.

  Everything happened so fast. I turned to see Simon Peterson clutch a white napkin over his face. But it was no use. Vomit gushed from his mouth, the clear liquid leaking through the sides of the napkin and spraying onto the table.

  “Oh, my goodness!” cried Isabella as a spot splashed onto her evening gown. But her love for Mr. Peterson triumphed over her revulsion. “Simon—are you all right?”

  The table erupted as one, with each of the guests standing with such force that some of the chairs fell back onto the floor. Although I was used to the acidic stench from my nursing days, I knew that many could not bear the smell that had begun to fill the room. Mrs. Buchanan clasped her napkin over her face in disgust. May Frith-Stratton looked as if she was about to faint. James Kinmuir gazed on the scene with horror. Dr. Fitzpatrick rushed around the table to see what could be done.

  “Perhaps it’s food poisoning,” I said as I offered my napkin to Mr. Peterson. “I think we should get him upstairs.”

  At this moment Simkins arrived back in the dining room bearing an enormous serving plate of roast beef. The sight that met him—the unruly table, the vomit-tainted cloth, the guests in uproar, the acrid smell—unsteadied him to such an extent that I feared he might drop the dish. But he rallied and managed to turn on his heels to take the food out again. He reappeared with a maid who was clutching some cloths and a bowl of water.

  As the butler directed the girl to clear up the mess, Mrs. Buchanan called over, “Simkins, I think you have forgotten the iced water—for my dress.”

  Simkins, quite rightly, ignored her.

  “Honestly—this household…,” murmured Mrs. Buchanan. “I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve mixed in the most bohemian circles.”

  James Kinmuir, who was clearly embarrassed by the whole scene, stepped forwards to
try to take charge. “I’m terribly sorry about this,” he said. “Rufus, would you mind helping me? Mr. Peterson, can you stand up?”

  Mr. Peterson began to ease himself out of his chair, but just as he was about to stand, he seemed to lose all control. His body leant forwards and he fell straight onto the table, knocking off a plate and a glass which fell onto the floor. Isabella, standing by him, screamed.

  “Simon! Simon!” she cried.

  She reached out to him to see if he had hurt his face, but luckily it seemed he had only bruised himself. A moment later he started to twitch like a fish wrenched out of water, and it seemed he was on the point of drifting into unconsciousness.

  “Doctor,” said Isabella. “You must help him. Quick!”

  May Frith-Stratton came over to comfort her sister. “I’m sure it’s just a case of food poisoning, as Mrs. Christie suggests.”

  Mr. Peterson gripped his stomach as a wave of pain swept over him.

  “I think he’s been poisoned!” screamed Isabella. “Something in his soup—or the wine.” She cast an accusatory glance in my direction. “I was on Simon’s left and I know I didn’t do anything.” She left it at that, but the implication of her statement was clear: I was the one who had poisoned Mr. Peterson.

  “Oh, come, now,” said the doctor. “I know we’ve all had something of a shock and our nerves are shot to pieces, but really. I’m certain it’s nothing but a case of food poisoning. Can you help me get him upstairs?”

  Rufus Phillips and Davison came to Dr. Fitzpatrick’s aid, while James Kinmuir followed them out of the room. Isabella wanted to accompany them, but the doctor persuaded her that it would be for the best if she remained downstairs. He would examine the young man and report back shortly.

  At the door, Kinmuir turned and apologized again. “Hawkins, I’m sorry. This dinner was supposed to be in your honor and it’s ended in a disaster.” His eyes sought out the butler. “Simkins, would you set out some food and plates on the sideboard in the drawing room?” Then he addressed the guests. “Perhaps you can all help yourselves there—if you’re still in the mood for eating, that is.”