I Saw Him Die

by Andrew Wilson

  “What the—” uttered Hawkins under his breath.

  The two uniformed men bearing the stretcher backed away down the stairs, unsure what was going on.

  “It can’t be… I thought that…”

  “As I said, Inspector, the situation is rather more complex than it seems,” I said. But now was not the time for explanations; those would have to come later. Instead, we watched as Simon Peterson, still weak and shaken from the effects of the emetic, made his way down the stairs.

  By the time he had reached the bottom, the inspector had recovered his composure. “Simon Peterson, I am arresting you for the murder of Mr. Robin Kinmuir and Mrs. Veronica Kin—”

  “Don’t be such a blockhead, Hawkins,” said Davison. “Peterson’s innocent. Surely you can see that?”

  “How dare you talk to me like—” Hawkins said.

  “Come into the drawing room and we’ll explain,” said Davison. “And you’ll be able to catch your murderer.”

  Hawkins turned to his uniformed colleagues. “Stay outside the door and don’t let anyone through,” he ordered. He walked up to Simon Peterson and frisked him to check whether he had a gun or a knife or any other kind of weapon hidden on his person. “I’ve got no idea what this is all about,” the inspector said to him. “But you’re not going to pull the wool over my eyes so easily. The evidence shows that you are the one behind all of this, and at the moment that’s what I believe.”

  Davison tried to speak, but Hawkins raised his left hand and shouted him down with the words “I know your division, but I’m still the one in charge here.” With his right hand the inspector took a gun from his inside jacket pocket and pointed it at Simon Peterson. “At the slightest provocation I will not hesitate to shoot.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Simon Peterson’s appearance in the drawing room provoked cries of astonishment from everyone, most particularly from Isabella Frith-Stratton. She jumped to her feet and was about to run to him, but her sister wisely stopped her. Instead, it was Miss Passerini who flew into his arms.

  “Simon… Simon,” she whispered.

  “Darling, are you all right?” asked Mr. Peterson. “You look exhausted.”

  “Don’t worry about me. What about you? I thought you were dead.”

  “Well, at times I almost felt like it,” said Mr. Peterson. “You see, I—”

  But Davison interrupted. “I think it’s best if you say as little as possible,” he said quietly. “At least for the moment.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Peterson.

  “If you could stand to one side, miss, I would be grateful,” said Hawkins.

  Miss Passerini was reluctant to move away from the man she thought she had lost. “I never believed any of the awful things they were saying about you,” she said, still clinging on to him. “Not one word of it.”

  Mr. Peterson smiled as he gently detached Miss Passerini and, with some effort, took a couple of steps away from her.

  “Doctor, can you explain this?” said James Kinmuir. “You said this man was dead.”

  Dr. Fitzpatrick looked down and mumbled something about how he must have misread the signs.

  “And, Inspector, what is the meaning of bringing a murderer into the drawing room?” continued James. “You did say, if I’m not mistaken, that Peterson intended to make me his next victim.”

  “None of you need worry,” said Hawkins, raising his gun. The sight of the pistol produced another series of gasps. “If he makes the slightest move, he knows that I’ll shoot him dead.”

  “This is quite ridiculous,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “I’ve seen enough drama on the stage without witnessing any more here. I’m leaving.”

  But as she made a move towards the door, Davison stood in front of it, blocking her path.

  “If you’d be so kind as to step aside…,” she said. The request may have been a polite one, but her eyes were full of fire.

  Davison remained fixed to the spot.

  “I don’t know if you heard me, but I intend to leave this wretched place,” she said. “My bags are packed and I’m sure my Rolls must be ready by now.”

  “I’m afraid you are going to have to stay here,” said Davison.

  “And what authority do you have to tell me what I can and can’t do?” asked Mrs. Buchanan. “Really, you’re just too tiresome for words. Now, step aside.”

  Davison leant forwards and whispered something in her ear. Whatever he said—something about his true identity as a secret intelligence officer, no doubt—stopped Mrs. Buchanan in her tracks. She was desperate to save face, however, and said, “Well, I can see your point. I will take my seat, yes, but let me tell you I am leaving here tonight, whatever happens.” She took longer than necessary to return to her place in an armchair near the front windows and retained her proud, regal composure as she sat down.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Buchanan,” said Davison before addressing the rest of the group. “Now, you may all be wondering what’s going on here. And you deserve an explanation. First, I must tell you that I didn’t come to Dallach Lodge as a mere houseguest. I came on behalf of His Majesty’s government.”

  Everyone spoke at once. “So you’re a—” said Vivienne Passerini.

  “I don’t believe it,” said May Frith-Stratton.

  “How extraordinary,” said Rufus Phillips.

  As Davison began to speak again, the comments died away. “Robin Kinmuir—who had, at one time, worked for a particular division of the Foreign Office—had reason to believe that someone wanted him dead. He had been sent a threatening note and so I was dispatched up here to protect him. On that score, I’m afraid I failed.”

  “Indeed you did,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “In spectacular fashion.”

  “Quite,” said Davison. “And for that I must apologize.”

  “In that case, why don’t you arrest the man responsible: Simon Peterson?” said Mrs. Buchanan. “After all, he’s standing right in front of you. I understand you have a suicide note from Simkins which outlines the details of the case.”

  “Indeed we do,” said Davison.

  “Well, I would have thought that settled it,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “Really, it’s getting very frustrating. And some of us have appointments we must keep. The London stage is waiting for me.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Davison. “But when it comes to Mr. Peterson, I have to tell you all that he is not the guilty party.”

  “Not the guilty party?” said James Kinmuir. “But, Inspector, I thought you said you had everything you needed to draw the case to a conclusion?”

  The inspector was looking uncertain now and he no longer had his gun pointed at Mr. Peterson. Perhaps he was beginning to work out the real nature of the killings for himself. “Simkins’s note did point to Peterson as the mastermind behind the murders,” said Hawkins, “but what if Simkins’s death was not a suicide?”

  “Exactly,” said Davison. “Simkins was just another victim here. He didn’t hang himself. Rather, someone killed him and made it look as though he had taken his own life.”

  “But what about the suicide note?” asked Rufus Phillips.

  “Now, this is where it gets interesting,” said Davison. “I’m going to pass you over to my colleague, Mrs. Christie, who will tell you a little more about that.”

  “Mrs. Christie?” said Mrs. Buchanan dismissively. “Why would we want to listen to her? I mean she’s just… just a writer.”

  “That may be so,” said Davison. “But she has also played an integral part in this investigation. So, please, Mrs. Christie, if you could expand on what I’ve been saying?”

  I was thankful that Davison had kept my role suitably vague. As I stepped forwards into the middle of the room, all eyes turned towards me. I felt the familiar prick and burning of my cheeks as I began to blush. I hated to be the center of attention, but I owed it to the victims—to Robin Kinmuir, to old Mrs. Kinmuir, even to Simkins himself—to explain the killings at Dallach Lodge and, as a result, br
ing about some sort of justice.

  I took a deep breath and began. “The case is very complex, but let me start with the suicide note found next to Simkins’s body,” I said. “We know that Simkins didn’t write that note because it was not executed in his handwriting… but my own.”

  “What?” said Mrs. Buchanan.

  “I don’t understand,” said James Kinmuir.

  “If you could let Mrs. Christie explain without interruptions, that would be best,” said Davison.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You see, the night before his death, the butler came into possession of a sample of my handwriting. He ripped some pages from my notebook and refused to return them to me. The killer must have seen these pages and subsequently copied my handwriting, believing it to be Simkins’s own, in order to fashion the suicide note.”

  “Which means… the killer is still here,” said James Kinmuir. “Among us.”

  “Indeed,” I said.

  “Oh, my Lord,” said May Frith-Stratton. “I think I’m going to faint.”

  The atmosphere in the room was so strained, one could almost taste the tension.

  Isabella Frith-Stratton spoke up. “But if the fake suicide note was written in the hand of Mrs. Christie, why aren’t you simply arresting her for the crimes?”

  “Yes, it’s the kind of ploy she might use in one of her books, isn’t it?” said her sister, May. “What’s it called? A kind of bluff, or is it a double bluff. Is that the right term?”

  “Now, let’s not get carried away here,” said the inspector. He turned to address me. “So I’m right in saying that the suicide note was written in your hand, but you didn’t write it yourself?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And why, may I ask, didn’t you tell me this at the time, when you first saw the note?”

  “Well, you see, it was vitally important for the killer to believe that they had got away with their plan,” I said.

  It was obvious that I was getting on the inspector’s nerves. He had been wrong not once but twice, and he was desperate to catch me out. “So, Mrs. Christie, would you care to tell us who in this room is the murderer?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “But, to be strictly accurate, it was more than one person who was responsible for these murders.”

  FORTY-TWO

  The revelation caused another wave of shock to reverberate around the room. I hesitated as I thought how best to explain everything.

  “Of course, each of you came under suspicion at one point or another,” I continued.

  The comment was met by outraged exclamations and yet more threats to leave the house immediately. Perhaps it was not the most tactful thing to say.

  “I’m not listening to this nonsense,” said Mrs. Buchanan, springing from her chair once more.

  “Nobody is leaving this room until this is straightened out,” said the inspector. “Nobody! Now, please, Mrs. Buchanan, take your seat and let Mrs. Christie speak.”

  “Thank you, Inspector,” I said. “As you all know, Robin Kinmuir was found dead on the moor. The first suspect was his nephew and heir, James Kinmuir, who had accidentally shot him while he was out hunting for grouse with his friend, Rufus Phillips. But he was dismissed as a suspect after it was revealed that Robin Kinmuir had not died from a gunshot wound but from curare, which had got into his system after his razor blade had been contaminated. Yes, it really was a quite horrible, gruesome, and very painful death. It also came to light, through information supplied by the family solicitor, Mr. Glenelg, that James Kinmuir would not inherit a penny. And so the two friends were cleared of any guilt.”

  “Yes, and quite right too,” said May Frith-Stratton.

  “Then came the murder of poor Mrs. Kinmuir, stabbed in the back of the neck with a paper knife,” I said. “A quite unforgivable crime. The old lady was almost blind, she was losing her faculties, and she was murdered in her room at the top of the house, in a place where she should have felt safe.”

  Quiet descended over the room as I continued to speak.

  “Next we learnt that some of you in this room had been drawn to Dallach Lodge after being sent a letter inviting you to witness some kind of punishment to be inflicted on Robin Kinmuir,” I said. “After all, many of you had good reason to hate Kinmuir. Isabella and May Frith-Stratton related how their father’s business had been ruined as a result of Kinmuir’s actions.”

  “Surely you’re not suggesting that we had anything to do with this?” snapped Isabella. “And what about your own confession at the time—that you had come to the lodge because of what Kinmuir had done to your own father?”

  “I’m afraid that was a little poetic license on my part,” I said. “I felt I needed to make up a story so as to gain your confidences. That might seem like treachery, but I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “Well, if Mrs. Christie can lie about that, how do we know she’s not lying now?” Isabella continued. “How do we know that she’s not the one behind this wicked business?”

  There was something I wanted to ask the two sisters, but despite Isabella’s aggressive attitude I felt that it would be kinder to do so in private.

  “Please, Miss Frith-Stratton,” said the inspector. “Carry on, Mrs. Christie.”

  I nodded my head in recognition and continued. “And then we learnt of Simon Peterson’s grudge against Robin Kinmuir: he believed that Kinmuir was responsible for his father’s death in Maastricht when serving as an agent during the war. Later we discovered the reason why Miss Passerini was here as a guest: she is the illegitimate daughter of Robin Kinmuir and she blamed him for her mother’s suicide. So, you see, all of you had a reason to take revenge on Mr. Kinmuir.”

  “Can I stop you for a moment?” asked the inspector. “Not quite all of us. I certainly didn’t receive one of these mysterious letters, and I doubt whether Dr. Fitzpatrick did either.”

  “Well, this is where it gets interesting,” I said. “Although you, Inspector Hawkins, may not have received a letter, you certainly had a reason for wanting Robin Kinmuir dead.”

  “What?” he said. “Now you really have lost your mind.”

  “Am I not right in saying that your family was a victim of the clearances, that terrible time when tenant farmers on this land were evicted from their homes by the Kinmuirs?”

  Hawkins looked stunned and started to say something, but I continued. “And that your grandfather was forced to leave Skye? And he lost a brother and a sister to illness and poor nutrition? Indeed, you grew up to hate the Kinmuirs with a passion.”

  “Inspector? Is this true?” asked James Kinmuir.

  “Yes, but that was a very long time ago, and I wouldn’t do anything like you’re suggesting,” he said. “I’m an officer of the law.”

  Hawkins’s explanation failed to satisfy the group, and everyone looked at him with suspicion in their eyes. The fact that he was brandishing a gun did nothing to allay people’s fears.

  “Turning to you, Dr. Fitzpatrick,” I said. “Your relationship with Mr. Kinmuir was a complex one, wasn’t it?”

  “He was a good friend of many years,” said the doctor, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

  “But I am right in saying that you were more than good friends with his first wife, Catherine?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick, blushing.

  “And you were also involved, at some stage, with Mrs. Buchanan here?”

  “This is too much!” said Mrs. Buchanan. “I’m not going to sit around while my name is bandied about like some cheap vaudeville show.”

  I turned my attentions to the actress now. “You managed to put on quite a performance,” I said. “But it’s time to tell the truth about—”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she interrupted. “This really is the most extraordinary behavior. If you think I’m going to remain in this—”

  I ignored her and continued. “—the disappearance of Catherine Kinmuir.”

  I was sure my words
must have had an impact on Mrs. Buchanan, but she was such a skilled actress that she arranged her features into a perfect mask.

  “There’s no point denying it: Dr. Fitzpatrick here told me everything,” I said.

  For the very briefest of moments, Eliza Buchanan’s defenses collapsed. She flashed a desperate look at Dr. Fitzpatrick, then she smiled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

  “Would you care to illuminate us, Doctor?” I said.

  Dr. Fitzpatrick looked at me with all the pain and self-pity of a sick dog. “Must I?”

  I left the question unanswered. He knew from our talk that, at some point, he would have to tell the truth to the police. I felt sorry for him that this had to be done in front of an audience.

  “Well, this would be back in—” he began.

  “Don’t you say another word!” hissed Mrs. Buchanan. “We had an agreement, Jeremy. You promised me!”

  “Aye, and I’m afraid it’s too late for all of that,” said Dr. Fitzpatrick. “She knows. They know.”

  “Knows what?” asked the inspector.

  “About the letter and how—”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, you stupid man,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “The problem is you’ve always been weak. Weak then and weak now.”

  “For God’s sake, woman, can’t you hear yourself!” shouted the doctor. Years of frustration and anger could be heard in his voice. “No wonder you drive away every man who loves you.”

  As Dr. Fitzpatrick finished the sentence, he looked surprised by the strength of his words. The comment stung Mrs. Buchanan to the quick, and the carapace that she had so carefully constructed around herself began to crumble.

  “Oh, Jeremy…,” she said. She tried to speak, but she could say no more, and her eyes filled with tears.

  Yet I had seen Mrs. Buchanan in action before, both on and off the stage. Were these tears real? How did I know whether she was sincere or whether she was drawing on her considerable skills as an actress?