“Well, I’ve never been spoken to—”
“You’re not going out and neither is anybody else.” The inspector was taking control. He thought quickly as he ran through everything that needed to be done. “Simkins, after I’ve checked that everyone is inside, lock the doors. Make sure the windows are secure, too. Mr. Kinmuir, when you return from upstairs, tell me where the guns are kept and if there is a lock on the door. And if so, who might have keys to that room.”
A sense of panic was rising in the hall. Dr. Fitzpatrick could not quite take in the inspector’s words. Isabella Frith-Stratton was on the verge of a nervous collapse, while her sister looked like a frightened child. Mrs. Buchanan raged with a silent fury. James Kinmuir, unsteady on his feet, struggled as he continued to hold the top end of the stretcher that bore Mr. Peterson up the stairs, and it was obvious that his friend, now red in the face, and Davison were taking the majority of the weight at the bottom.
“There is no doubt about it,” said Hawkins. “There’s a murderer in our midst, and tonight I am determined to catch him.”
And so, as the doors were locked, Dallach Lodge once more became a prison from which none of us could escape.
THIRTY-SIX
“I don’t like this,” whispered Davison to me when he returned to the hall after carrying Mr. Peterson upstairs.
“Neither do I,” I said, making sure that nobody could hear our conversation. The inspector had gone down to the kitchens to try to explain the events to the servants while the rest of the group were still discussing what had happened to the cars and the telephone wire. “But, thinking about it, the situation might well work to our advantage.”
“In what way?” Davison asked.
“I would assume that the killer, or killers, will be experiencing a great sense of panic now,” I explained. “They won’t quite know what is happening. We know that the poisoning of Mr. Peterson was not part of their plan. It is in this state of mind that they are likely to make a mistake, and that’s how and when we’ll catch them. Listen, I haven’t got much time before I have to go to Mr. Peterson’s room to pretend to nurse him through the night. But we need to find Simkins and discover why he’s been acting so queerly. One moment he’s a bag of nerves and the next he’s behaving in a very bullish manner, as if overly confident about his future.”
“You think he knows something about what’s been going on?”
“I’m not sure, but I’d say so,” I said.
“He passed me on the stairs as we were carrying Peterson up to his room,” said Davison. “Let’s go up and see if we can find him.”
We slipped away and made our way up to the first floor. We checked the corridor and some of the open rooms before realizing that Simkins must have gone up to the attic. We found him just as he was about to disappear into his own room.
“Excuse me, Simkins,” said Davison. “I say, terrible business this, isn’t it? I wonder if we could ask you a few questions?”
Davison’s request was met by nothing but a shifty look. It was clear the butler thought he had fulfilled his duties for the night and no doubt he wanted to escape into his room, where he could further indulge his love of drink.
“Perhaps we could have a quiet word with you?” I said.
“What’s it about?”
His tone was offhand, bordering on the rude, but I chose to ignore his manner.
“You see, Simkins, I have been worrying about what will happen to some of the servants after the house is sold,” I began. “I’ve been watching you closely and it can’t have been easy dealing with everything that’s gone on here at the lodge. But the long and short of it is Mr. Davison and I have been most impressed with how you’ve handled everything. You’ve remained calm and collected throughout. I wondered whether, well, whether you’d consider taking a position as a butler in my house?”
It was obvious that the question caught him off guard. Simkins looked astonished that anyone would offer him such a kindness.
“It’s very nice of you, ma’am, indeed it is, but after I leave here I won’t be seeking further employment.”
“You won’t?” I asked.
“No, ma’am, indeed I won’t,” he replied.
“But surely you’re not old enough to retire?” asked Davison. “And the small legacy left to you by the late Mr. Kinmuir is hardly a fortune—that’s if it ever gets paid to you.”
Simkins, now more ratlike than ever, was clearly in no mood to elaborate and tried to scuttle into his room.
“Just a moment,” said Davison. “One other thing.”
“Yes, sir?” he said, sighing.
“Do you know anything about this business… anything that hasn’t been told to the police?” asked Davison. “About the murders.”
“What do you mean?” Simkins replied. “I don’t know a thing. And if that’s all, then good night.”
Davison wedged his foot in the door just as Simkins was about to close it.
“What are you doing?” asked Simkins, clearly frightened now. He tried to force the door closed, but Davison’s strength proved too great.
“Just trying to get to the bottom of your lies,” said Davison, pushing his way into the room.
“I’ll be telling Mr. Kinmuir about this, just you wait,” Simkins said.
“I hope you will, and while you’re at it, you can tell him—and the inspector—everything else you know,” said Davison.
I stepped forwards, hoping to calm the situation and gain the butler’s trust. “You see, Simkins, as I said, I’ve admired your discretion and the way you’ve behaved during what must have been a very stressful time. But perhaps there are certain occasions when one’s discretion and tact have to be put aside for the greater good. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
His eyes continued to look hostile and frightened.
“I don’t doubt you’re feeling rather alarmed by what Mr. Davison is asking, but, please, if you do know anything—anything at all—about what’s gone on here at the lodge, I beg you to share it with us.”
Again he remained silent. And so it was Davison’s turn to use his particular method that he believed brought results. In a flash, he locked the door and pushed Simkins against the wall with a force that took the wind out of the man. He grabbed the butler’s throat and began to press down hard on his neck.
“Be assured I can—and I will—get this information out of you,” whispered Davison into Simkins’s ear. “In whichever way I consider necessary.”
Simkins’s face reddened as he gasped for breath. A horrible choking noise was coming from his throat, and his eyes began to bulge. I was worried how far Davison would go in his search for the truth—surely he wouldn’t kill the man?—and I was about to beg him to release the butler when he finally pushed him away in disgust. Simkins tried to steady himself, but he fell backwards onto the foot of his brass bed.
I went over to try to help him to his feet. “I’m sorry about that, Simkins. Here…” I offered my hand, but the butler turned his face away from me as he pushed himself upwards using the frame of the bed. “Listen, it’s very important. I think I know what’s been going on. The reason why you don’t need another job is because you’ve come into a certain amount of money, isn’t it? Or at least you believe you are soon going to do so.”
At this, Simkins looked as shocked as if I had slapped him around the face.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
He said nothing, and so I continued. “I believe you know who the killer is, and although I would rather not use the word ‘blackmail’—such an ugly word, don’t you think?—let’s just say I think you’ve come to a mutual understanding with someone and certain financial benefits are due to come your way.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Simkins replied, straightening his shirt and tie.
“Simkins, don’t play the fool with us,” said Davison. “It’s too dangerous a game.”
“The only dangerous thing around here is you,
” said Simkins, feeling more certain of himself again. “Who do you think you are, coming in here and behaving like that? It’s not right, I tell you.”
“Simkins, I’m pleading with you,” I said. “If you don’t tell us what you know, then you could be putting your life at risk.”
For a moment a look of fear haunted his eyes before he dismissed my comment with a sneer and an unpleasant laugh. “I think you’ve both lost your minds,” he said. “And now I’d like you to leave my room.”
Davison ignored him and began to look around the butler’s meager quarters. He opened a small chest of drawers and, as he searched through Simkins’s belongings, began to toss out the man’s undergarments.
“Stop! You can’t do that!” shouted Simkins.
“Agatha, look for anything that might be useful. Letters. A diary…,” said Davison.
As Simkins turned to try to stop me, Davison unearthed two full whisky bottles in the bottom drawer, hidden away among some clothes.
“This looks interesting,” said Davison, walking over to the sink with one of the bottles. “I hope you haven’t taken to pilfering these from your employer.”
Simkins moved towards Davison to try to stop him from pouring his precious whisky down the sink while I searched the room for anything of interest. By his bed I found a Latin primer, inside of which were two sheets of paper covered in handwriting. Perhaps these held a clue to the passer, or sparrow, mystery. But as I snatched them up and placed them inside my handbag, Simkins turned and saw me.
“Give those back to me!” he demanded, his eyes full of fury. He launched himself towards me. “What do you think you are doing?”
“What are you doing with a Latin primer?” I asked.
“Can’t a man try to better himself?” said Simkins as he reached out and grabbed my handbag.
“Leave her alone!” said Davison, who put the whisky bottles on top of the chest of drawers and came over to my aid. “I say, Simkins, that’s enough!”
But the butler had passed the point of no return. “Coming in here, accusing me of all sorts. Looking through my things, throwing them all about the place, and trying to take my papers away.”
“It was simply a misunderstanding… Here, let me find them,” I said as I tried to hold on to my bag.
“Misunderstanding indeed!” he said, as he finally wrenched the bag from me. “And there I was thinking that you were a nice lady, offering me a job in your house. In truth, there was no job in your house, was there?”
“I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,” I said.
“Give Mrs. Christie her handbag,” insisted Davison.
“Just as soon as I retrieve what is rightfully mine,” said Simkins as his fingers plunged into my bag. But instead of finding his sheets of paper or his primer, he pulled out one of my notebooks.
“Please give me that,” I said, in as reasonable a voice as I could muster.
“Just a moment,” Simkins said. He opened the notebook and, as he began to read through it, smiled to himself. “Now, this sheds a new light on proceedings, doesn’t it?”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” said Davison.
“Don’t I just?” His eyes lit up with relish as he read what I had written about the case of Dallach Lodge. “I know someone who will pay good money for this.”
“I’m sure you do,” I said. “Now, Simkins, if you could please return that, I would be most grateful. We won’t say any more about today and we can part on good terms.”
“I’ve always believed that expression—what is it?—‘Fortune favors the brave,’ ” he said, fixing me with a nasty smile. “I know: Why don’t we come to a compromise?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” said Davison. “Now, I warn you, give the lady back her bag.”
“She can have it,” he said as he let it drop to the floor.
“And the notebook?” I asked.
“I’m keeping hold of this,” he said. “I’m sure it makes for very juicy reading all right.”
“Come on, man,” said Davison. “You don’t know what you’re getting involved with here.”
“Don’t I?” he replied. “You’d be surprised. Once all this is over, I reckon I’ll be set up for life.”
Davison lunged towards him and, with his right hand, punched him in the face while with his left he grabbed the notebook. I heard a ripping sound as Simkins’s fingers formed themselves into a claw around the paper. Davison took possession of the notebook, but a few pages, torn in half, remained in the butler’s grip. At that moment we heard someone calling up the stairs.
“Mrs. Christie? Davison?” It was the inspector. “Simkins? Where the hell are you?”
“We’d better go,” said Davison.
“And what about the room?” I asked.
“We’ve got no time to clear it up,” said Davison.
“And Simkins?”
“We’ll have to leave him,” he said.
I bent down to try to retrieve the pages ripped from my notebook, but Simkins, his nose now bleeding, held them close to his chest. There was a knock at the door.
“Simkins?” the inspector called. “Open the door!”
“Give me those pages,” I hissed.
Simkins returned my request with a look of pure hatred. He was about to say something when the inspector knocked at the door again.
“What’s going on in there?” he said.
The three of us looked at each other, frozen in a moment of nervousness, indecision, and panic. I needed to draw upon my imagination to come up with an explanation for the situation. And I had seconds in which to do so.
“Inspector, thank goodness you’ve come…,” I said, going to open the door. “If you could help us… that would be most kind.”
Davison and Simkins looked slightly astonished, as if they were unsure about what I would say next. At that moment, so was I.
As he entered the room, Hawkins was taken aback by its appearance: the contents of the drawers strewn across the floor, the whisky bottles, and the state of Simkins’s face. I looked at the scene through his eyes and an idea came to me.
“I’m afraid we came across a rather inebriated Simkins earlier,” I said. “As you can see, it seems as though he’s been having quite a time of it with the whisky bottle. I suppose it’s the stress of all that’s happened here, the poor man.”
“Yes, I can see that,” said Hawkins. “I realize things have been difficult, but this won’t do, Simkins. We need you to remain alert. God knows what’s going to happen tonight. Your nose is bleeding. What did you do, man? Fall down drunk?”
Simkins nodded his head meekly.
“I’m thinking that it’s probably best for James Kinmuir not to know about this,” Davison said. “He’s got enough to worry about at the moment.”
“Yes, you’re probably right,” said Hawkins. “But this must not happen again.” He looked around the room. “Simkins, get your quarters into some kind of order. It’s a disgrace.” He turned to us. “Mrs. Christie, Dr. Fitzpatrick is looking for you. And, Davison, if you could come with me, I want to ask your opinion about what tool might have been used to slash those car tires.”
As we stepped out of the room, Davison and I looked at one another with relief. Although Davison did his best to disguise it, there was also an element of fear in his eyes. Seeing his expression did nothing to calm my own nerves. But we had no choice. It was too late to turn back now.
THIRTY-SEVEN
After discussing the issue of the slashed car tires with Davison, the inspector gave orders for everyone to go to bed and lock their doors. He would sit outside Mr. Peterson’s room while Dr. Fitzpatrick and I would tend to the patient’s needs. I would have liked to have been free to talk more to Davison and move around the house at will—indeed, I wanted to try to retrieve from Simkins’s room those pages torn from my notebook—but it was essential to stick to our plan. Everyone at the lodge, including Inspector Hawkins, had to believe that Mr. Peterso
n had been poisoned and was on the point of death. Only the doctor, Peterson, Davison, and I were in on the plan.
Before being incarcerated in Mr. Peterson’s room for the night, the doctor and I made sure we had an ample supply of buckets, towels, and water so that we could deal with the unpleasant effects of our patient’s condition. The next morning I planned to take the buckets, covered with towels, and dispose of the contents in the nearby lavatory. Inside my handbag I had, of course, an abundant supply of other substances that could render a man unconscious, if not dead, in a matter of minutes. If Hawkins—or any other person—did try anything during the night I would be ready.
As I turned the key in the lock, I gave a look of assurance first to Dr. Fitzpatrick and then to Mr. Peterson, who was lying in bed.
“You both did wonderfully,” I whispered. “We can’t talk much, because the inspector may be listening at the door.” I moved over towards the bed and asked Mr. Peterson, “Are you still feeling sick?”
He opened his eyes slightly and nodded his head.
“It was very noble of you to take that emetic, but its effects should soon start to wear off,” I said softly.
“Anything that can help Vivienne,” he said in a voice so slight that only I could hear. I held his hand as he closed his eyes once more.
I moved back towards the door and, in case anybody was listening, started to talk loudly to the doctor about the worries I had about Mr. Peterson’s condition. Dr. Fitzpatrick, in turn, went along with the charade and outlined the man’s symptoms and his poor prognosis before describing, in detail, how I should nurse him throughout the night. We talked at length about the Marsh test for detecting arsenic—named after the chemist James Marsh, who outlined his method in 1836—and how one could use activated charcoal to treat the poison. At intervals we would stand up and slosh water from one bucket to the next and, occasionally, just as we were lapsing into silence, Mr. Peterson would wake up and retch into a pan by his bed. Throughout the night we kept the window open to dispel the room’s unpleasant odors.
I Saw Him Die Page 25
