Of course, nobody had much of an appetite after what we had all witnessed, but we left the mess behind for the comfort of the drawing room. There, people made sympathetic noises about what could have caused poor Mr. Peterson to have been taken ill. There was talk of shellfish: we had all feasted on giant langoustines only a day before, but none of us had suffered any ill effects.
“What I don’t understand is why Mr. Peterson didn’t excuse himself from the table earlier,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “Surely he must have had some warning signs that he felt unwell.”
“Perhaps the attack was so sudden, he was taken entirely unawares,” said the inspector.
“We’ll have to ask the doctor if he’s come across such a case before,” said Isabella, who was still suspicious of me. “I must admit it strikes me as very odd. I do hope he feels better soon. I know he was very much looking forward to leaving this place, as I’m sure we all are.”
“It’s such a nuisance that we can’t yet leave the island immediately,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “Sorry, Inspector, I forgot you were sitting there for a moment.”
“Don’t mind me,” he said genially. “Please, carry on.”
“Do we really have to remain here?” she asked.
“I’m afraid that would be for the best,” said Hawkins.
“We may try the hotel in Broadford,” said May Frith-Stratton. “I’ve heard it’s quite charming. And so handy for the steamer, too.”
The thought of the two sisters staying at the hotel where I had left Rosalind, Carlo, and Mary, made me feel queasy.
“I think it depends very much on Mr. Peterson’s health,” Isabella replied. “After all, we can’t very well leave him if he’s ill, can we?”
“Yes, perhaps it’s best if we stay on at the lodge a little longer,” replied May. No doubt she wanted to eke out as much time with James Kinmuir as possible. Perhaps the young man’s dire finances did not trouble her.
A short while later, Kinmuir, Phillips, and Davison returned downstairs and helped themselves to drinks.
As soon as Isabella saw them she jumped up. “How’s Simon?” she asked. “Is he feeling better? Please tell me he’s improving.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said Phillips. “The poor chap is writhing around the bed like he’s in a great deal of pain.”
“Oh, I must go to him,” she said, making for the door.
Mrs. Buchanan stopped her. “My dear, he won’t thank you for it,” she said. “He won’t want you to see him in that kind of state. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
It took a moment or so before Isabella nodded her head. She asked the three men whether the doctor had given any indication of what might be wrong and wondered whether a cold compress should be sent up to Mr. Peterson. She could not sit down but flitted about the room like a bird in a cage.
“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” said James. “Once he drinks some water, flushes whatever it is out of his system, I’ll bet Peterson will be as right as rain.”
“Do you really think so?” asked Isabella. “Just that with everything else that has gone on here…”
“There is no need to worry yourself so,” said the inspector. “The person behind the deaths at Dallach Lodge is locked away in Portree. She’ll soon pay a heavy price for her crimes.” He nodded at James Kinmuir, who acknowledged the gesture with an inclination of his own head.
“Yes, you’re right,” said Isabella, calming down. “Sorry, it’s all been such a terrible strain. Not as much as what you’ve had to go through, Mr. Kinmuir. All the same, I—”
“I understand,” said James, who looked as though he had finally forgiven Isabella Frith-Stratton and her sister and perhaps even the rest of us for coming to Dallach Lodge to watch the punishment of his uncle. If he had been short with me or had behaved oddly, I had to tell myself it was because he believed that I too had traveled to Skye for the same purpose. “I’m sorry for any harsh words I might have spoken in the heat of the moment. As you can imagine, finding out about those letters was a terrible shock.”
“I apologize for any distress I might have caused you,” I said to him. After all, I still had to play the part. “If you need any help with anything—the funeral arrangements, the flowers, and suchlike—do please tell me.”
“I think I can manage,” he said sharply. So perhaps he had not forgiven me for the part he believed I had played in all of this.
“That’s extremely kind of you,” said Rufus Phillips, smiling warmly at me. “I’m sure James appreciates your offer. Don’t you, James?”
James Kinmuir forced himself to smile. “Yes… yes, I do,” he muttered. “Most kind.” But I knew that he did not mean it.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how do you feel about Miss Passerini now?” I asked.
“In what regard?” answered James.
“The person who killed your uncle and great-aunt was a relative of yours,” I said.
“As far as I’m concerned, she’s not related to me,” he replied. “She has forfeited her right to be part of this family.”
Rufus stretched out and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. The young man had such delicate hands and really quite graceful fingers. The hands of an artist.
“I wish she’d never come to this house,” said James. “I wish she’d never been born.”
At that moment the door to the drawing room opened. Dr. Fitzpatrick stood there somber-faced, a messenger bearing bad news. The room went quiet as we all turned our heads in his direction, apart from Isabella Frith-Stratton, who rushed towards him.
“Please sit down, miss,” said the doctor. “I’m sure it’s for the best.” He took Isabella’s hand and led her to a chair.
“What do you mean?” she cried.
“I’m not sure how to tell you all this,” said the doctor, “but from my preliminary examination, it seems as though Mr. Peterson has been poisoned.”
“I knew it!” said Isabella. “What did I tell you? Doctor, please tell me that Simon will be all right. He will recover?”
“It’s difficult to know in cases such as these,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick. “He’s a strong young man, but his system has been weakened. He’s suffering from a range of symptoms: stomach cramps, bloody… well, certain gastric problems. Dizziness and convulsions, too.”
“I don’t understand. You say he’s been poisoned?” asked James Kinmuir. He looked as though the life had been sucked from him. No doubt he was thinking, Please, not another death—not in my house.
“Yes, it looks like arsenic to me,” said the doctor.
The room went silent as the enormity of the statement sank in.
“But that means… that means that if Simon has been p-poisoned, then…,” said Isabella Frith-Stratton, choking back the tears, “… then Miss Passerini may not be… the murderer.” Her own words terrified her. She looked around the room. Her eyes, filled with tears and hatred, came to settle on me. She did not say anything, but her face told the whole story.
She thought I was the killer.
THIRTY-FIVE
“Now, let’s not be hasty and jump to any conclusions,” said Inspector Hawkins. “Even if Mr. Peterson has been poisoned, that does not mean Miss Passerini is innocent of these crimes.”
His statement was immediately shouted down as several people spoke at once.
“I’ll be damned,” said Rufus Phillips.
“It doesn’t make sense,” cried Isabella.
“The murderer must be still in the house,” said May.
“I’m sure it’s that awful butler,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “Always sneaking around. Did you see the way his hand was shaking at dinner? Spilt half the soup down my beautiful dress.”
“I thought all this was over,” said James Kinmuir as he slumped back into his chair. “I’m not sure if I can bear it much longer.”
The inspector tried to take charge. “Please calm yourselves,” he said, raising a hand as if he were a schoolmaste
r trying to quiet a room of unruly children. “First of all, is anyone else feeling sick?”
May Frith-Stratton was the only one in the group who admitted to feeling nauseous, but after consultation with her sister she admitted that this was probably due to witnessing the unpleasant scene at dinner.
“Fitzpatrick,” asked the inspector, “how certain are you that this is indeed a case of arsenical poisoning?”
“There are tests that will need to be done to confirm it, but all the symptoms seem to indicate ingestion of arsenic.”
“But I’m right in saying that the symptoms of arsenic poisoning are often similar to those of a stomach upset? We don’t need to go into detail, not in front of the ladies, but—”
“They are similar, yes. But it’s the severity of the symptoms, and the rather sudden way that Mr. Peterson reacted, that makes me suspect arsenic.”
Hawkins was determined to make his point. “So, at this stage it’s merely a suspicion, not a certainty?”
“If you put it like that, yes, but—”
“Well, let’s keep an open mind, shall we?” said the inspector in a rather patronizing manner. “We will examine the soup and the wine and carry out some other tests that could take a few days. Once we have the results back, perhaps then we can decide whether it’s a case of arsenical poisoning or a severe attack of gastritis.”
Dr. Fitzpatrick did not take kindly to the inspector’s tone of voice, and, in turn, his response was sharp and to the point. “Mr. Peterson may not be around when the test results come back.”
“You don’t mean that—”
“We need to get him to the hospital in Portree as quickly as possible. I’m afraid it’s touch-and-go.”
Dr. Fitzpatrick decided that the quickest way to get Mr. Peterson to Portree would be to take him in his own car. He asked Davison, James Kinmuir, and Rufus Phillips if they would help carry his patient down the stairs.
A few minutes later Mr. Peterson, with eyes closed and looking pale and near death, was brought down on a makeshift stretcher and placed in the back of Dr. Fitzpatrick’s car. The inspector, Rufus Phillips, James Kinmuir, Davison, and I remained outside, looking up at the stars. Nobody spoke. All we could hear was the sound of the engine, the gentle water lapping at the side of the sea loch, and the cry of a distant bird on the moor. As the car started to pull away, an odd noise came from the vehicle.
“That’s strange,” said Davison.
“What’s that?” asked the inspector.
They were both looking down at the car. Dr. Fitzpatrick stuck his head out of the window and tried to move the car once more.
“There’s something wrong with this damned car,” he said.
“We need some light here!” shouted James. “Simkins!”
A moment later the butler ran out of the house with an oil lamp.
“Point it down here,” ordered Hawkins.
The butler shone the light onto the front tire at the right-hand side of the car. The rubber had been slashed to ribbons.
“My God,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick as he got out of the car.
“Check the other tires,” said Hawkins.
Each pocket of light told the same story: all four tires had been punctured.
“When did you last use the car?” Davison asked Dr. Fitzpatrick.
“It was yesterday, when I returned here after finishing Mrs. Kinmuir’s postmortem.”
“And it was running well?” asked the inspector.
“Yes, of course,” said the doctor. “Look, I haven’t got much time. Peterson’s life is at stake. Would you mind if I borrowed one of yours?”
“Be my guest,” said James. “The easiest thing would be to bring it round and then we can lift Peterson from the back seat straight into the second car. I’ll go with you.”
James led the doctor and the inspector to the side of the house, near the old stables, where the other cars were parked.
As Davison and I followed them at a safe distance, we breathed in the peaty, damp air.
I whispered, “What do you think’s going on?”
“I have my suspicions,” he said. “I think the killer didn’t want Fitzpatrick or Peterson to leave the house. And if I’m proved right, then…”
Another cry came from the stable block. “My car’s been attacked, too!” It was James Kinmuir.
We ran towards the three men and into a pool of light cast from an outside lamp. Hawkins, Kinmuir, and Fitzpatrick looked like ghosts.
“Who would do such a thing?” asked James.
“Here, let’s check the others,” said Hawkins.
The three men went from car to car, from tire to tire. Each of the vehicles had been damaged. Someone had taken a knife to the tires, leaving them in shreds.
“It’s impossible to drive any of these cars,” said the doctor. “What am I going to do about Peterson? If I don’t get him to a hospital, then it’s highly likely he will die. If there were still horses stabled here, I could have used one of those…” He thought for a moment. “I know: the boat. I could put him in that and take him to the next estate along, to the MacLeods. We could use their car to take him to Portree.”
We ran from the stables to the boathouse on the edge of the sea loch. But we were met by another scene of destruction. The bottom of the wooden boat had been smashed in.
“What on earth is going on?” cried James Kinmuir.
“Perhaps we can get someone to come here?” I suggested. “An ambulance, or at least another doctor?”
“I’ve a colleague in Portree who might be able to help,” said the doctor. “But, as I say, we haven’t got much time.”
We ran back to the house, and the doctor immediately rushed to the telephone table. He picked up the receiver, placed it down again, and repeated this procedure a couple of times before he reached down behind the table and pulled up the wire.
“I don’t believe it,” he said as he raised his hand to reveal that the wire had been cut.
James grabbed the telephone wire from the doctor’s hand. “Is this some kind of awful joke?”
“No, I don’t think it is,” said the inspector, who was beginning to understand the enormity of his mistakes. All the carefully thought-out deductions that he had assembled into a seemingly indestructible edifice began to crumble before his eyes. “Dr. Fitzpatrick, go and see to Mr. Peterson. Davison, Kinmuir, Phillips, can you help to bring him back into the house? And don’t leave him alone for a moment.”
The men did as he said. At that moment Mrs. Buchanan drifted down the stairs, closely followed by the Frith-Stratton sisters. The women had not been told about the slashed tires on the car, nor about the telephone. But they demanded that they should all be allowed to leave. It was clear there was a killer on the loose. There had already been two murders and one poisoning resulting in near or certain death, and it was unreasonable that the women should spend another moment in the house.
“I know it’s late, but I don’t see why we can’t leave,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “We may not be able to find anywhere to sleep, but I’d rather take my chances and lay my head down in the back of a car than risk my life by staying here.”
The Frith-Stratton sisters clucked in agreement.
“I don’t think that will be—” the inspector began.
“I don’t see why not,” said the actress, using the force of personality and her well-practiced performance skills to try to outwit the detective. “After all, your own logic would seem to support my point of view. You said yourself, Inspector, that you believe Miss Passerini is to blame for the original crimes. And you also said that you didn’t believe that Mr. Peterson had been poisoned. If you still stand by these two opinions, then you yourself should not object to us going. I know you still want us to stay on the island, and of course I can understand that, but there really is no reason for us to remain in this damned place.”
“If you let me explain…,” pleaded the inspector. “You see, certain circumstances have come to light wh
ich mean that—”
“I don’t want to stay in this house a moment longer,” said Isabella. “I want to go to Portree. To be near Simon. To watch over him. To make sure he gets the best care available.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Hawkins, raising his hand to stop further objections. “You see, Mr. Peterson—”
And then the stretcher being carried by Kinmuir, Phillips, and Davison, and bearing an unconscious Simon Peterson, appeared at the door, closely followed by the doctor.
“What the—” said Isabella, before she fell back onto the stairs. “He’s not…?”
“No, but he’s not far off,” said the doctor. “The cars have been sabotaged, so we have to treat him here. Let’s get him back upstairs, into his own bedroom. I can keep a close eye on him there. Mrs. Christie? Did you say you were a nurse in the war?”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind helping me?”
“Of course, Doctor,” I said.
“No, not her,” said Isabella. “Anyone but her.”
“I can assure you that Mrs. Christie will do her utmost to help Mr. Peterson pull through,” said the doctor.
But the assurance did nothing to convince Isabella Frith-Stratton.
“I still don’t understand: What happened to the cars?” asked Mrs. Buchanan. “Inspector, please tell us what is going on.”
The inspector cleared his throat before he spoke. “All the cars have had their tires slashed. We thought about taking the boat out, but that too has been vandalized. We tried to telephone, but it seems the wire has been cut.”
“I must go and see my beautiful Rolls,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “Who would want to damage it? It was a gift from this director who, after my run of—”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Buchanan, but I think there are a few things more important than your precious car, even if it is a Rolls-Royce,” said the inspector.
I Saw Him Die Page 24
