“And Dr. Corneau?”
“I had him picked out some time ago. Annalee’s husband was mates with the boy who usually caddied for him at your golf club. All I had to do was send a telegram to get him out of the way that day and take his place.”
Drew nodded. “And I know Roger Morris was in here with Clarice the day she was murdered. I suppose that was when you slipped the cigarette case into Roger’s pocket.”
She giggled. The woman actually giggled.
“That was good, wasn’t it? I never liked that snobbish little tart anyway. She was always too good to buy anything but a newspaper here. It had to be London for everything. It was nothing to drop by her cottage once she was alone and tell her I’d found the book she wanted. I slipped plenty of Veronal into her tea while she was looking at the book, then left her in good spirits.”
“And left poor Roger to take the blame for it.”
“What a sniveling little hedgehog he is, simpering after her the way he did. He should be glad he didn’t marry the silly creature and have her lording over him the rest of his miserable life. And then there was that wretched American boy who kept on nosing around, trying to spoil everything.”
“The meddler. I take it he wasn’t really part of your plan.”
She shrugged. “Not at first. There was only meant to be three. After all, three is just right, isn’t it? Two really isn’t enough, and four is a bit much, if you ask me. I merely thought our Freddie would do nicely to put a bit of uncertainty between you and Miss Lah-de-dah. She’s really the only person I hate enough to kill, but doing away with her would have spoilt everything.”
“Madeline?”
“The wretched little minx. I’ve seen her deviling you, pulling you close with one hand and driving you off with the other. How’s that for a way to treat anyone, much less the man she loves? Taunting and teasing? What does a girl like that know about how to treat a man? She’s had them all thrown at her all her life no doubt. What does she know about loneliness? About aching just to hear a man’s voice say something kind, something that says you’re a woman and not just a thing.”
“I don’t—”
“You were always kind to me, Mr. Farthering.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Drew.”
“Mrs. Harkness—”
“I knew that if I could make you see me, really see me, you’d realize how much better I was for you than she. You need someone who’s as clever as you are, someone who could keep you amused. You said yourself it had been smashing fun. She’s never done anything of the kind for you, has she?”
“No, she hasn’t. Why didn’t you kill her? I’d’ve thought you’d want to make away with her. Clear your own path, as it were. No?”
She smiled. “Oh, no. I couldn’t have you mourning for her for ages afterward. I wanted you to hate her, not make her into a martyred saint. And if she were dead, that’s what you would have done. Forever young and beautiful, she would have been your idol and still in the way. I couldn’t have that, now, could I?”
“No, of course not.” He sipped more of his tea, still watching her. “Perhaps you’re right after all, Mrs. Harkness.” He sheepishly ducked his head. “I mean, Bobbie.”
“Don’t!”
Drew flinched as she slammed her fist on the table, rattling her teacup in its saucer.
“Don’t you ever patronize me.” The pink in her cheeks had become an angry red. “I know the idea is ridiculous. Beautiful young lord of the manor and poor Mrs. Harkness, the old ratbag from the bookshop? Doesn’t matter how clever she was or how many people she got the better of or how very, very much she might have loved him.” Her eyes were pleading now. “Doesn’t matter. Better to go now on my own terms. Better than staying here, little more than invisible to the rest of the world.”
“Where are you going?”
“Far enough.” She nodded and smiled again. “Far enough so I don’t have to hear them talk about poor Bobbie Harkness. You never knew how it was, did you?”
“How what was?”
“Not to be everyone’s darling. Not to be anything but the life of the party. Not to be surrounded by family and friends.”
He tried an understanding smile. “I don’t know why you’d say that. I haven’t anyone much myself anymore. Not after my mother and stepfather were killed. I can understand how you—”
“Don’t,” she hissed again. “Don’t say you know how I feel. You’ve got that girl simpering after you, her and a hundred more you could have in exchange for a wink. And you’ve got that Nick Dennison as well, salt of the earth, stout fellow, friend in all weather. Don’t tell me you couldn’t snap your fingers and have Farthering Place full to bursting with the best of your society crowd any moment you cared to. Don’t pretend you know what it’s like for someone upon whom God didn’t care to rain down graces.”
“But there’s Annalee. Your grandchildren. They—”
“They left me. That’s my thanks, mind you, for a lifetime of mothering. But that husband of hers, that Marcus, he must work at the new store in Liverpool, mustn’t he? Never mind leaving the old woman to herself now. Mr. Harkness did that years ago, you know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. He left, true, but he didn’t get far. No farther than the garden behind the shop.”
She said it as matter-of-factly as if she’d told him she had planted radishes or carrots in that garden. There was only mild speculation in her expression as she watched him, nothing more, but it sent something electric, thick and burning, coursing through his veins.
She wasn’t mad; she was vengeful. She was sober and deliberate and utterly ruthless.
“So now what?”
He knew what. She’d confessed to everything. She’d have to kill him or herself. There was still that painful beating in his blood. Maybe she’d kill them both. Either way, she knew it was the end. It was written there in that fevered look in her eye.
“Look here, Mrs. Harkness, I won’t bore you with my problems. I’ll just say that my life isn’t quite so ideal as you make it out. No one’s is. No doubt you’ve heard it said that if we could all lay down our packs of troubles and choose the one we’d rather carry, we’d most of us take our own back again. Maybe you’ve had a rum go of it with everything that’s happened to you. Maybe everyone has in his or her own way.”
He was starting to get up when she pulled a little nickel-plated derringer from the pocket of her housecoat. “I’d rather you sat back down.”
He sat back down.
She jiggled the gun in front of his face. “Oh, I know you’ve had your trials. It couldn’t have been easy for you with what happened out at Farthering Place. That’s why I thought we could both use a bit of fun. That’s why I thought you and I would reach an understanding. A sympathy, if you like. Perhaps I was wrong.”
“I . . . I hardly know what to say. All those people . . .”
“They were going to die eventually anyway. They were all good people, weren’t they?”
“I don’t know. I suppose.”
“You believe in heaven, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” Where was she going with this?
There was something bitter in her eyes. “Well then, what’s the harm in sending them on a bit early?”
“That’s God’s decision to make, not ours.”
“God.” She laughed. “What does He care about me? He has His favorites, and the rest of us can go to hell. Isn’t that what He says?”
“No.” Drew forced himself to look directly into her eyes. “What He says is that He offers all of us His forgiveness, and His love as well, no matter what we’ve done. All we need do is accept it.”
She shook her head. “You’re so very young, aren’t you? I sometimes forget, but you’re hardly more than a boy. Live as long as I have and see if those tales you’ve heard don’t turn sour. But no, I’d rather you not lose that little bit of fantasy. It looks well on you. Too many handsome men are nothing but sangfroid, and they always a
ppear as if they’re sneering. I’m glad I’ll never have to see you that way.” Then something evil came into her eyes as she stood and placed the barrel of her pistol just behind his left ear. “Better to go now.”
Dear God in heaven, she was going to kill him right here at her kitchen table.
“It’s no good using that. The chief inspector knows I was coming here.” Did he know? He knew Drew had gone to inquire about a book. Surely he would deduce . . . “And how are you going to explain a dead body at your table? Or my car outside?”
“No worry there. In a little while, once we’re done here, I’ll put on your coat and hat and drive away. Then I and my neighbors can tell your dear chief inspector we saw ‘Mr. Farthering’ leave in his car. And if they find your precious Rolls in the ditch a little way up the road, I expect they’ll have their own theories on how it got there and what might have happened to you.”
Lord God, you hold me in the palm of your hand.
“Someone will hear the shot.”
She glanced at the derringer. “I’d never use this. It’s too loud. Besides, Veronal always does the trick nicely. It worked for that Deschner girl and even helped a bit with Mr. Bell. It worked for Mr. Harkness, as well. There was never a whimper out of him. This derringer was the only really useful thing I got from the marriage.”
His eyes flickered to the gun once more, and she pressed it just slightly harder against his skin.
“I shouldn’t have said I’d never use this. It’s more that I shouldn’t like to use it. Especially not on that handsome head of yours. But if you’re foolish and try to take it from me, I suppose I’ll have no choice, weak woman that I am.”
“I won’t take it. The Veronal, I mean. You’ll have to shoot me.” He did his best to look unflinchingly into her eyes. “Or let me go. Either way, what I told you is true. God will forgive you if you ask Him.”
She nodded, just a touch of a sneer on her face. “And what about you?”
He closed his eyes for a moment, knowing she would instantly pick up on any hint of insincerity now. What was he prepared to do, especially now in the face of his own death? When he very well might stand before his God in the next minute or two and answer to Him for his own deeds? He couldn’t force himself to feel anything charitable toward her, not with this sick terror running through him, but there was something he could do.
He took a shuddering breath and looked again into her eyes, his choice made. “I will forgive you, too.”
She froze where she was, and for an instant he saw past the hard cynicism, past the rage and ruthlessness. Instead, in those wild, dark eyes, he saw pain and fear and the dread knowledge that there was no going back. Not for her, he could see she was certain of that. But an instant was all she would allow before the smirk returned to her lips.
“You’re an absolute lamb, Mr. Farthering.” She stroked his damp forehead, pushing back an unruly lock of hair. “Truly, you are. Yet as appealing as it is, no amount of bravado or sentimentality is going to help you now. You’ve already taken the Veronal.”
He shook his head. Even that took no small effort. Lord God, you hold me in the palm of your hand.
“But you had tea. It was from the same pot.”
His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, and a wave of grogginess washed over him. Lord God, you hold me . . .
He took a couple of quick breaths, trying to fight it, but it was no use. The room was fading out of focus, and Mrs. Harkness sounded as if she were very far away.
“The honey, my precious. The honey.”
Lord God . . .
Twenty
Aunt Ruth had just grumbled for the third time about Drew being late for dinner when the Farthering Place telephone rang.
“Calling up with some lame excuse, I suppose.”
“Please, Aunt Ruth.” Madeline turned to Nick, trying to keep the worry out of her eyes. “He would call, wouldn’t he?”
“Oh, I’m sure. He’s just had a puncture or some such thing.”
Dennison came to the parlor door. “Chief Inspector Birdsong is on the telephone for you, Nicholas.”
“Me?” Nick asked. “Did he say why, Dad?”
“He asked to speak to Mr. Farthering, and finding him not at home, he asked for you. I don’t advise you keep him waiting.”
Nick hurried off to the study. Though she knew she wasn’t invited, Madeline went after him.
“Chief Inspector,” Nick said, “how are you this evening?”
Madeline could hear the faint murmur of Birdsong’s voice through the telephone but couldn’t understand what he was saying.
“So old Llewellyn does have a sweetheart, eh?” Nick chuckled. “That explains his being out on his bicycle in the evenings, the old roué.”
Birdsong said something else, and Nick shook his head. “No. If they were seen together the night Mr. Bell was killed, and also when Clarice was killed, I suppose that lets him off the hook, doesn’t it?”
Madeline tried to tell what Birdsong said in reply, but all she could make out was “women murderers.”
“Yes, he did,” Nick said. “From the bookshop here in Farthering St. John. He thought whoever bought it might enjoy playing the sort of game our hatpin murderer has been involved in.”
Madeline made out the words “since this evening” from Birdsong’s reply, and again Nick shook his head.
“Not a word from him. Actually I was about to go hunting for him.”
Again the chief inspector spoke, but Madeline heard nothing but the low tones of his voice.
“Right,” Nick replied. “I’ll be ready for you. And if you find the Rolls in the ditch and happen to see him walking this way, best fetch him along home, eh?”
“What did he say?” Madeline asked when Nick hung up the phone.
Nick frowned. “Drew said something to him about finding out who ordered that book on murder. Seemed to have some idea who the killer is, but wouldn’t say till he’d found out for certain if it was the same person who wanted the book.”
“You don’t think he’s in trouble, do you?”
“Good heavens, no.” Nick gave her a reassuring smile. “Just a puncture or a breakdown somewhere. Old Birdsong said he’d like to find out about that book too, even if it is a bit late for making official calls. Since Drew’s out, he thought I might like to go along. Maybe between the two of us and Mrs. Harkness, we can figure out what Drew was thinking.”
“You mean the three of us and Mrs. Harkness.”
Nick laughed. “I didn’t think you’d stand for being left home. Yes, well, best tell your aunt we’ll be missing dinner. Birdsong will be by for us soon. Maybe we’ll find Drew and Mrs. Harkness having a nice chat and all our worries will be for nothing.”
“There’s the Rolls,” Nick said when the chief inspector stopped in front of the bookshop. “See? Probably just having a chat and forgot the time.”
Madeline half dragged him out of the car. “I’ll feel better when I know for sure.”
Nick bounded up to the shop and tried the door. “Bolted tight.” He gave the door four or five solid raps. “Anyone there?”
Only silence answered him.
“Mrs. Harkness?” Birdsong pounded the door with his fist. “Hello?”
More silence, followed by a single gunshot.
With a cry, Madeline rattled the door in its hinges, trying to push both men aside. They wouldn’t let her.
“Stay back, miss.” Birdsong pulled off his overcoat, wrapped it around his hand and forearm and then punched through the window nearest the door. Then he reached through and released the bolt. In another instant the three of them were inside.
“Drew! Drew, are you here?” Madeline’s voice was thin and quavery in the dim stillness of the shop.
Birdsong shrugged back into his overcoat and strode past the bookshelves and into the back room. “Mrs. Harkness? Mr. Farthering?”
“Are you here, old man?” Nick called.
“Upstairs,” Birdsong
directed, but Nick was ahead of him. He took the steps two at a time with the chief inspector right behind. Madeline tried to wedge herself past them, but the passageway was too narrow and Birdsong was holding her back.
“Best let us get the door open, miss.”
“Drew!” Again and again, Nick threw his shoulder against the door. “Drew, can you hear me?”
“Drew!” Madeline’s voice cracked and choked in her throat until she could only whisper. “Please be all right. Dear God, please let him be all right.” She clung to Birdsong’s battered sleeve, biting her lower lip, tasting blood.
“Get it open, man!” the chief inspector barked, and just then there was a splintering of wood and the door slammed back against the wall.
Madeline tore past the two men into the parlor and then stood frozen in the doorway to the bedroom, her hands over her mouth. Mrs. Harkness lay on the narrow bed, her eyes wide and staring. Her right arm sprawled onto the floor, with her hand resting alongside a small nickel-plated derringer. And close by Mrs. Harkness lay Drew. His face was still, pale, and spattered with blood. A note was fastened to his chest with a long lion-headed hatpin.
The words screamed in Madeline’s head, but came out only as a pitiful whisper: “Please, God, no . . .”
Nick made a strangled sound low in his throat.
Stepping around Nick and Madeline, Birdsong went to Drew and felt for a pulse. He turned to Nick. “Go get a doctor.”
Nick blinked stupidly.
“Get a doctor!” Birdsong roared. “Now!”
Nick bolted out of the room and clattered down the stairs.
Birdsong glanced at Drew’s chest, taking a moment to scan the note’s message.
“Oh, Drew.” Madeline fell to her knees beside the bed and took him into her arms, away from . . . from her.
From the bookshop below she could hear Nick shouting into the telephone, demanding to be connected to Dr. Wallace at once. She held Drew tightly against her, begging for God’s mercy in sobs more than words.
After a few minutes she could feel the tiniest beating in his chest. But he remained limp against her, and his lips were bluish and cold. She breathed his name against them while Birdsong grabbed his wrist, slapping it rapidly.
Death by the Book Page 26
